


Call It Intelligence

by Singing_Orange, talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Harold Finch, Big Bang Challenge, Canon Dialogue, Carter Lives, Character Death Fix, Come Eating, Coming In Pants, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Sparring, Top John, Training, Whump, crying Finch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 15:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singing_Orange/pseuds/Singing_Orange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: “I don't even call it violence when it's in self defense; I call it intelligence.”― (x)Finch asks Reese to give him some intensive self-defense training after Root takes him. They spend a lot of time together in close proximity, which is difficult for pining Reese. Eventually he slips up and reveals his feelings.Finch was not expecting this. He just wants to stay friends. He's still hung up on Grace and very confused when he starts returning Reese’s feelings. Then something happens which forces him out of his state of denial.Their relationship evolves, and at the same time, there are also changes in the lives of their friends.





	1. [John]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xLostLenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore/gifts).



> The artist who claimed my fic is the AMAZING singing_orange. Check out more of their work on tumblr [HERE](https://singingsweetyorange.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art). The Big Bang art is embedded in this fic. They made scene illustrations which totally blew me away and inspired me. I am so honoured and thankful for their art, as well as all the support during the writing process. The final piece in Chapter 3 is NSFW.
> 
> Note on character death: The canonical deaths of the following characters are mentioned: Nathan Ingram, Cal Beecher, Wayne Kruger, Vanessa and Jeremy Watkins, Harold Martin, Laskey, Patrick Simmons, Arthur Claypool, Samaritan, Greer. (Reese gets close, but he's fine, I promise. You know what he's like, he bounces back.) 
> 
> Minor content warnings: There are mentions of past alcoholism connected to Reese and Fusco. There’s a scene which may be slightly triggering for panic attack symptoms. It'll be coming up when you read 'GO BACK'. You should be safe to rejoin by 'When he thinks he can trust his voice.' One reference to potential sexual misconduct by a male character in a position of power, Root’s psychiatrist in 3x01. (My apologies if the episode quoting is sometimes too much, I didn’t always find the right balance.) Some description of blood. One attempted attack by a man on a young woman. I have not warned for 'Graphic Depictions of Violence', let me know if you think that should change.
> 
> I ran out of time to get a beta reader for the finished story, so if you spot any errors, please let me know - kindly - in the comments.
> 
> Reading duration: I timed myself reading each chapter. It takes me 3.5 hours in total. (Ch1: 20 mins | Ch2: 2 hours | Ch3: 1 hour 15 mins).

John is wandering around the library corridors one morning, passing time until they get a new Number. He’s leaving Harold to his own devices, has been half-listening to the distant sound of his typing, a comforting background clatter. Outside the sun is shining weakly, and traffic noise from the roads outside filters up through the old, yellow-framed windows.

He doesn’t expect Finch to come and find him. Usually Reese is the one who sneaks up on Finch, but this morning John rounds a corner and there Harold is, books tucked under one arm and the other held out, palm up to stop John in his tracks.

Harold lowers his hand. “Mr. Reese, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should revisit your offer of self-defense lessons?”

When John doesn’t respond immediately, Harold adds: “And I want more than ‘poke him in the eyes’, this time.”

John smiles. “It’s good advice, Finch.” And it is. He wasn’t making fun. He knows Harold already used that advice to great effect against Lily Thornton’s stalker.

Harold frowns at him. “Will you do it?” He asks, voice clipped.

John doesn’t have to question what has brought this on. They still haven’t spoken about what went on between Root and Finch, when she took him. John is painfully curious, but knows better than to pry.

“Of course, if you want to. Where and when?”

Harold checks his watch. “Tomorrow evening? Work permitting, of course. As for a location, will here suffice?”

John glances doubtfully around them at the narrow corridor, then up at the ceiling, trying to remember what the third floor looks like. He could spend the day clearing it of junk, but it’d be easier not to. “There’s not a lot of room, even upstairs. How about my place?”

Harold accepts this. “Seven-thirty, then. I can let myself in.” He’s already turning away, his attention on Bear who has also come to find them.

“It’s a date,” John says carelessly, and then immediately wants to swallow his tongue. Harold either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t react, which is just as well. Shrugging, John reaches into his pocket for Bear’s tennis ball and throws it.

—

At a quarter past eight the following evening, John makes it home from wrapping up the loose ends of a robbery gone wrong. Carter had needed him to check out an alibi, which involved running from Gotham West Market in Hell’s Kitchen to the savings bank on 5th Ave. Since even John couldn’t make it in under ten minutes, Carter can prove the girlfriend’s false confession wrong, leaving her final suspect with nowhere to go.

“Sorry I’m late,” John calls out as he lets the door shut behind him. Harold is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a pile of clothes on the dining table, folded neatly. John moves into the room, leans against the table, and brushes his thumb over the coiled-up pattern of Finch’s brown tie with blue spots. It continues to amaze him how Finch can pull off any color combination.

The man himself appears. “There you are! I was about to start raiding your kitchen.”

John looks up, turning away from the table, intending to smile apologetically. Instead, he is forced to make his face go rapidly and determinedly blank.

Finch is wearing a gym vest and shorts, all bare arms and knobbly knees. The scoop of the vest’s neckline reveals a tuft of graying chest hair, and John can see the outline of his nipples through the thin material. Harold’s biceps and shoulders appear unexpectedly powerful. All in all, he looks so different without his suits, that John is starting to realize this lesson might present a challenge for him personally.

"Uh, Finch? What's this?" John gestures between the pile of clothes and Harold’s general direction.

Harold glances down at himself. "Oh, my attire? I didn't want to wrinkle my suit unnecessarily."

John nods. “I understand, but leave it on next time. The closer we can replicate conditions in the field, the better.”

“Alright. Shall we get started?” Finch turns. John very deliberately does not check out his ass in those shorts. Harold makes his way over to the crash mats that John set out on the floor before work this morning. John notices the surgical scars on the back of Harold’s neck. They are faded enough to be a couple of years old, but no more than that. Whatever caused Finch’s injuries, it’s recent. More recent than 9/11, which until now had been John’s best guess.

John touches his own neck, faintly sweaty from the run. He caught his breath back on the way here, but he should probably change his clothes. “Hang on, give me five minutes. Where’s Bear?”

“In the bedroom. He seems to think it’s acceptable to stretch out on your bed.” Finch is clearly scandalized by this.

John grins. “He’s allowed.” Then he adds: “Help yourself to snacks!” Making a mental note to cook something when they’re done here.

On his way to the bathroom, John nudges up the thermostat in the hope that Finch’s peaked nipples will become less distracting.

—

When John returns, having had a quick shower and changed into his own workout clothes, Harold is on the couch with a book and a box of crackers. John is still somewhat in awe of the amount of bare skin on display, but aware that if he wants to help Finch - and he really does - he has to get his head on straight.

“Harold?”

Finch looks up, and his eyes follow John as he heads over to the space he cleared earlier. John had moved the desk and the lamp and the chair, tucked them into the corner between the bed and the windows. There’s plenty of space for sparring, the floor is level and smooth.

Harold closes his book and joins John on the mat. Of all the people John has ever stood across from in this kind of situation, Harold is the least likely opponent of them all. It’s not just his limp, or his ridiculous outfit. It’s his polite, expectant, trusting smile.

John says “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to teach you?”

Harold’s lips skew slightly to one side, highlighting the asymmetry of his face. “I was hoping you would know.”

“Okay. We’ll start simple. Make a fist for me?” John holds his own arm up, demonstrating.

Harold doesn’t move. He looks wary now. “You’re going to ask me to hit you, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But not today, if you don’t want. We can start slowly. Just…make a fist.”

Harold does. He puts both up, a bit self-consciously, with the backs of his hands facing John. It is, frankly, adorable. But John can’t say that.

“Okay, two things. If you can turn…” He copies Harold’s stance and then lifts his elbows outward. “So your thumbs are going up…” Harold duly points his thumbs at the ceiling. “Good. The reason you want this is when you go to strike out,” John extends his arm slowly, “you’ve got less far to turn your wrist. Whereas if you start facing away you’ve got to do a 180, almost.”

“And the second thing?”

“Your thumb.” Harold is still pointing his thumbs, resting against his index fingers with the pads turned up and out, like a compacted thumbs-up gesture. Harold looks down and, embarrassed, tucks them flat again. “Better, but not what I meant. Can I…?” He indicates he’s going to come closer, and Harold lets him.

Harold says “It’s not a good idea to tuck it inside your fist, I know that much.”

“Yeah, that’s an easy way to break it. But let me show you…” John holds his left hand up, fingers spread, palm out. With his right hand, he guides Harold’s right fist slowly into his palm. “When you have your thumb resting on top, the first thing that connects is -” John pushes down gently, just enough that Harold’s thumb starts to bend back, away from his fist. “You’ll hurt your thumb and weaken the punch.”

As John’s fingers lightly curve around his hand, Harold drops both his arms to his sides, breaking the contact.

“Instead I want you to curl your fingers up, then try and touch the pad of your thumb to the second knuckle of your third finger,” John says, showing him. “This keeps your thumb out of the way, and it strengthens your first two knuckles, which are gonna do most of the damage.”

Harold copies him, taps his own knuckles together to feel how much more strongly they are linked. “That _is_ better. Thank you, John.”

John ignores the warmth in his stomach that blossoms with Harold’s thanks. “Okay, let them loose.” He uncurls his hands quickly, stretching his fingers out as far as they’ll go. Then crunches them back into fists again. “Practice that a couple times. Just getting your thumbs in the right place at speed.”

Harold does so, quickly and accurately. John lets him do it about twenty times before calling it quits.

“That’s enough. Nice work, Finch.”

Harold sniffs. “I haven’t done anything yet.” He seems impatient, and yet John is reluctant to get him throwing a punch today. It’s not that he thinks Finch couldn’t handle it. It’s…he’s being selfish. In an ideal world, John would do one hundred percent of the legwork and Finch would stay in the library all day, safe and sound. It’s a naive and potentially complacent choice, but Finch’s innocence, his inexperience with violence, is something John has always wanted to preserve. It’s the same reason he hopes Finch never has to touch a gun.

“Let’s leave this for now, and try an easy escape.”

“Escape?” Harold sounds perturbed.

“Yeah, from someone grabbing your wrist. Turn so you’re sideways to me.” John makes a quarter turn as well, facing the same direction as Harold.

“Hold your arm out,” John says, because he doesn’t want to grab him without warning.

“No,” Harold protests, in a tone that suggests he’s being deliberately contrary. “Surely I ought to avoid holding out my arm for someone to take?”

So, that backfired. Harold can and will be a wiseass. Noted. “Okay, but imagine. Someone came out of nowhere and grabbed your wrist and is trying to take you with them.” John wraps his hand very loosely around Harold’s wrist and pulls. Without any prompting whatsoever, Harold clenches his fist and yanks his arm up, taking steps in the opposite direction. He gets free because John was not expecting him to just go for it. He blinks. “That’s not what I was planning to show you, but sure.”

Harold is smirking at him. “The element of surprise.” He has wandered all the way off the mats and over to the couch, as though he expects John to chase him.

“Get back here,” John says, amused. “Let’s see you try that when I’m actually holding onto you.”

Harold makes his way back to John with his version of a swagger. He places his wrist in John’s grip without hesitation and this time John squeezes him a bit harder, without actively hurting him. Harold tries the same thing again, yanking savagely up and then down, but John holds him firm. Harold tries without success to pry open his fingers. John doesn’t pull him in any particular direction, plants his feet and lets Harold struggle for a minute before releasing him.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Harold says, flexing his wrist.

John holds his own arm out. “Take my wrist, hard as you can, and just watch.” He gives Harold a second to get comfortable in his grip before he does anything. Instead of ripping his hand away, he ducks closer to the ground and slowly moves his elbow in an arc toward Harold’s forearm. As part of the same movement, John’s trapped hand approaches his own shoulder. Harold’s thumb digs in extra hard for a second before John is free. John steps back and shakes his arm out. Harold looks genuinely confused.

“Want me to show you again?” John says.

“Yes, please.”

John lets him catch hold a second time. “Watch.” He makes the same arc underneath their hands. This time when he gets to the point where Harold is hanging on by a bent thumb, he says “You can’t hold me because your wrist doesn’t bend that way, nobody’s will. It’s not about using a ton of effort to rip free, it’s getting the right angle for leverage. This way it doesn’t matter how much stronger the other guy is than you, you’re getting out.”

“Interesting,” Harold says. “May I try?”

“Of course.” They reposition themselves and Harold tries. He struggles to duck at first, bending his knees too much. “Plant your feet wider apart,” John says. “Under and toward…There you go.” He flaps his empty fingers open and closed on thin air. Harold’s mouth twitches up at the corners. “Go again.”

They practice this ten or so more times, John keeping his grip loose so as not to burn Harold’s wrist. Harold moves more confidently the more he does it.

“What happens if you’re facing me and have both wrists contained?” Finch asks.

John thinks about this. “From up high or waist level?”

Harold indicates that he doesn’t know.

John decides to show him the lower down version first. He holds his hands out flat in front of his stomach, palms down. “Okay, grab my wrists? I’m gonna pull my fingers down, and then go under and around the outside of your hands. So I finish up on top.”

“Oh, that looks easy,” Harold says, surprised.

“From here, you can slap their wrists down, elbow to the face, whatever you need to get away. But we’ll worry about that later.”

They swap over and Harold practices the move. “What was the other one?” Harold reminds him, when they have the first one in the bag.

“Okay, so fists up.” John says.

Harold brings his fists up, but with his thumbs on top, pointing in John’s direction.

John pauses a moment to gently correct him. “What are you doing with your thumbs?”

Harold cringes and repositions them. Then John takes his wrists, brings them together, containing them, almost under Harold’s chin.

He must bring his face in a little too close, or loom too much, because Harold leans away. John ducks his head, avoiding confrontational eye contact, but doesn’t let go. “Sorry, this one’s a little more difficult.” He assesses Harold’s stance and adjusts his instructions accordingly. “First thing is to take a step back. I’ve got your arms close to your body, you can’t get much freedom of movement when your elbows are tucked down like that. You step back, you pull me off balance and you create some space.” Harold tries this, but he’s pulling with his arms as well as his body, and all it does is bring John closer. “I need you to step back and push your arms away at the same time.”

Harold frowns. “Are you sure?” His voice has gone a little higher, his shoulders tense.

John doesn’t like making him anxious. “It’s okay, take your time.”

On the next attempt Harold manages to push him away.

“Good, so then you…pull your wrists apart…under and outside, like before, and then swing your arms down.”

Harold gasps with relief when he manages it.

John tries not to beam with pride. “Well done, Finch! I think we’ll stop there for tonight.”

“Oh, already?” Harold sounds so disappointed that John almost wants to offer another demonstration, but resists. He knows Harold’s stubbornness. Finch will keep working for hours, ignoring his own pain and discomfort, if John lets him.

Harold plucks at the hem of his top. "I feel rather foolish now, getting changed into a special kit. I was anticipating breaking a sweat, I suppose."

"We can go for a run round the block to finish up, if you like." John suggests, tongue-in-cheek.

Harold scowls. "No, thank you."

John motions for Harold to take a step back, then lifts the crash mat off the floor, balancing it on its narrow edge against the windows, starts tidying up. “Will you stay for supper?”

As though he had been waiting for someone to mention food, Bear joins them, trotting an eager circle around Harold, who gazes down at the dog and softens. “I don’t see why not.”

—

For their second session, Harold keeps his suit on, much to John’s private relief. It also means he can teach Finch a couple of things which he couldn’t before.

“There’s a few steps to remember with this one,” John says, taking hold of Harold’s lapel. “First, bring your right hand over and grab my little finger. Then you wanna twist my hand so my palm’s facing up…harder than that, come on.” Harold makes a frustrated noise and properly turns John’s wrist until it begins to hurt, which is exactly what John wants. He turns his shoulder exaggeratedly slowly, demonstrating where the move forces an attacker to go. “At this point the other guy’s probably gonna be trying to hit you with his free hand. So to distract him you poke his eyes with your left, or push my face away so I can’t see what I’m doing.” Harold’s hand turning his cheek makes John want to shiver. He catches the corner of John’s mouth by accident with his splayed thumb. Facing away, John tells him “You’ve still got my right arm trapped, okay? Next move…turn to your right a bit…and put your left armpit on the back of my elbow.”

“This is all a bit too contortionist,” Harold remarks, but does as John says. “Are we learning self-defense or playing Twister?”

“You’ve played Twister?” John can’t resist deviating from the lesson to ferret out another of Harold’s secrets.

“No, but I’m aware of its existence.” Harold replies coolly.

“Okay, lean back on my elbow, Harold. Imagine bending it inward.”

Harold hesitates. “I suspect I might hurt you.”

John already has his free arm dangling, palm down, ready to fall. “That _is_ the point.”

Harold goes through with it, letting go of John’s hand as he does, and John obligingly crumples to the mat. “The only way I’m going, once you’ve got me there, is down.”

Harold stares at John, sprawled across the floor. “So that’s what these mats are for. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Oh, I’ll be seeing a lot more of it as we go.” John says, with a grin.

Harold offers him a hand up. John gets to his feet without taking it. He doesn’t mean it as a snub, he’s just very, very aware of how much he’s getting to touch Harold here, and guilty for enjoying it.

“We’ll practice that one again later. Ready for some blocking moves?”

Harold makes a noncommittal noise.

“Before I teach you how to punch, I want you to be able to dodge and redirect anything coming at you. Put your hands up, open, nice and relaxed…” John flaps his fingers open and closed rapidly to demonstrate how he doesn’t want Harold to tense up for this. “I’m going to bring my fist toward you, slowly to start with, and you’re gonna meet it with your palm and slap my hand down.”

Harold does exactly that, a little uncertainly. John sends his other hand in, telegraphing his movements clearly, and Harold deflects that too.

“Great, then we’ll speed it up a bit…”

John directs twelve more gentle punches into Harold’s hands and notes how surprisingly good his reflexes are. He sneaks in an uppercut just to be sure Harold is really paying attention - Finch shoves that down even more fiercely than the others. He’s clenching his jaw in concentration, though, and his nose is wrinkled. John lowers his arms. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t forget to breathe, Harold.”

“I’m hardly going to have my hands up ready like this in a real situation,” Harold says, sounding worried.

“I know, we’re coming onto that.”

“You’d better go faster.” Harold doesn’t lower his hands. This time he doesn’t screw his face up so much, and John feels him exhale, his breath tickling the hairs on John’s forearm.

“Good job,” John praises him, after a few more minutes’ practice, meaning it. Harold glares at him, apparently feeling patronized.

John thinks: we’ll make this more difficult then. “Next thing - I’m not going to tell you what I’m going to do, so there’s an element of surprise and you need to react defensively. Whatever happens this time, you’re not going to catch my hand, you’re going to dodge the blow entirely. Step to the side, turn around, duck - whatever’s instinctive. You’ve got your hands by your side and you’re not expecting someone to come at you, but the moment you notice a threat you’re getting away from it.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Harold relaxes his stance, stands normally with his hands by his sides.

The problem is, of course, that he’s expecting _something_ to happen and is still more ready than he would be if it happened for real. John sticks his own hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet, pacing back and forth. He does absolutely nothing for over a minute, until Harold gets impatient.

“Mr. Reese?”

“Yeah?” John pretends to have become distracted, scratches the back of his own head, then, with smooth reflexes, simply reaches out and slides Harold’s glasses off his face. Harold takes a large, hasty step back from him, but now his vision is impaired.

“…That was unfair.”

John gives him his glasses back. “Want to try again?”

Without waiting for a reply, he pokes Harold in the chest.

Harold, who is still putting his glasses back on, sighs. “John. You might take this a little more seriously?”

John bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his smirk. “Sorry. The point of the exercise _is_ to catch you off guard.”

“Yes, but I doubt a potential attacker is going to _poke_ me.”

John swings in the direction of Harold’s head, fully intending to pull the punch if Finch reacts too slowly, but he doesn’t need to. Finch neatly sidesteps, exactly the way John was hoping he would. “Nice reflexes! You ready to try punching me now?”

“I almost _want_ to,” Harold grumbles. He hasn’t forgotten what John taught him last time, forming his fists correctly. John puts his own hands up loosely and beckons Finch to come at him.

Harold shifts his weight from foot to foot, apparently unsure how best to tackle this. Then he narrows his eyes and darts forward, aiming for Reese’s shoulder. It’s not a very strong punch, and even worse, Finch is off-balance. He gets too close, enough for Reese to grab the front of his shirt and drag him sideways, slowly but firmly enough to demonstrate the problem.

“Oh,” Harold says, sounding alarmed and frustrated.

John decides some reassurance might be in order. “It’s okay, we’re here to work on this. You’ll get better. You want to aim for the face if possible, yeah? Maximum damage with minimum effort. If you hit me in the shoulder, I’m probably going to come back from that quite quickly.”

Finch takes that on board. His next shot barely grazes John’s ear, but he moves himself back out of range more swiftly than before.

“Good,” Reese says, letting his outstretched arm fall back to his side.

On the third attempt, Harold cleverly fakes him out by striking with his left when before he’d only used his right hand. He hits John square in the cheek. Reese’s teeth clack together, head jolting sideways. It doesn’t hurt, at least not on any level that really registers for him, and within a moment he’s grinning. Technique wise, that was spot-on. Added force will take care of itself in the heat of the moment when the adrenaline is there.

Harold, though, looks mortified. He’s rubbing his own lower lip with his fingertips, mouth agape. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

John laughs, rubs his own face for dramatic effect. “Are you sure you need lessons? That was textbook.”

“I…may have been doing some research.” Harold admits.

“Of course you have,” John says, fond. When Harold decides to learn about something, he’ll analyze every aspect known to man. That doesn’t necessarily translate to being able to apply it practically, but Harold clearly can.

“Still didn’t mean to _actually_ hit you.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing really well, Finch. Shall we talk about ties?”

“Hmm. I know you avoid them, and I understand why. But I’m not going to stop wearing ties myself.”

“And I suppose there’s no chance in hell of me convincing you to wear any kind of clip-on variety?”

Harold looks horrified. “None at all!”

John shrugs. “Then we’d better plan for this.” He reaches across as though about to grasp the very end of Harold’s tie. It’s intricately patterned, with blue, red and gold swirls. He stops just short of contact and says “the reason I taught you blocking first is…your best defense for a tie grab is to redirect them before they catch hold.”

Harold plays along with the demonstration, smacking John’s hand down like they practiced earlier.

"Okay, but assuming that fails," John continues, reaching for the knot of Harold's tie with his other hand, "what we don't want is for them to be able to choke you. Especially with your neck the way it is. Worst case scenario for most people is they can be dragged around and might struggle to breathe. For you, it's a lot more dangerous." Carefully, he takes a more secure grip, but not more than necessary to demonstrate. "Next thing I'm going to say to you sounds counter-intuitive: whatever you do, don't back away. You'll only tighten the knot and we really don't want that. Distraction is good for this kind of situation. The old 'poke them in the eyes' technique. Failing that, you need to go for a groin or shin kick. Anything to overbalance them, especially if they're trying to lead you somewhere. You can't pull against their direction of movement -" Reese points as though he's going to lead Harold over to the window "-because it'll cut off your oxygen. So you need to go with him, but undermine his balance."

Harold frowns. "I can't just pry his fingers apart? Or use the finger twist you taught me for the shirt grab maneuver?"

John tightens his grip a fraction, enough that Harold will feel the tension on the back of his neck. "Try it."

Harold does. He struggles to bend John's wrist around, his chin awkwardly doubling as he attempts to look down and see what he's grappling with. He gasps with exertion, almost manages to prise his thumb into the center of John's fist, until John can't bear to do it to him anymore and lets go completely.

"An inefficient method." Harold says, massaging his throat beneath his collar.

John is abruptly reminded of the second time they met, in that hotel room when he shoved this unknown, all-knowing stranger against the wall and could have killed him.

"Don't waste time with that in a real situation, okay? Kick him. Hard as you can, then get the hell away."

"I can't exactly run," Harold points out, looking doubtful.

"You're pretty speedy when you want to be." John begs to differ, remembering all the times he tried to tail Finch and the other man would just...slip off his radar.

"So long as I preemptively deflect any attempts at strangling via necktie, I shouldn't need to." Finch concludes. He still looks a little rumpled.

John really hopes that will be enough. He makes a mental note to speak privately to Finch's tailor the next time they go for a fitting. If he can make some sort of deal whereby they somehow loosen a row of stitches to act as a release when the fabric is pulled really hard...but Finch would notice, surely. Still, he has to try.

"Okay, very similar thing - hair grabs." He decides to move on, changing the subject. John lifts Finch's wrist, ducking a bit to accommodate for height, and encourages him to get a grip on his hair. Then he places his hand on top of Harold's. “Try to pull my hair.” Harold looks very amused by the whole situation, but he tries. John’s head rocks back and forth a little, but there’s no tearing sensation. “That’s causing me a lot less pain than if you were able to drag your hand away. We really don’t want anyone to be able to yank your head around.”

“How likely is this, really?” Harold says, removing his hand from John’s hair, letting it fall to his side. “Nobody has ever pulled my hair, not even at school when it was longer.”

John is abruptly distracted by the mental image of Harold as a teenager with long hair. He remembers the photo of Harold and Nathan that he found in the library last year. It wasn’t past his shoulders or anything extreme, but it did curl up under his ears, just short of reaching his collar. It was cute. “Just covering all my bases, Finch.”

“Hmm. You’re being very thorough.” Harold says. He seems oddly suspicious, as though he thinks John is trying to make a fool of him on purpose.

“Have you had enough? We could stop there for the night?” John doesn’t want to stop at all. He’s enjoying the contact of their hands too much.

“…No, finish what you were saying.” Finch concedes, and lets John close his fingers around the spiky hair on top of his head. John suppresses the urge to flatten his hand and let it card back through, cup his palm behind Harold’s ear and draw him closer. Instead he instructs Harold to press down firmly with his own hand on the back of John’s. Then with his spare left hand, John lays three fingers on the crook of his right elbow, digs in. “There’s a pressure point here. We’ll talk about those more next time. I want you to punch me, right here.”

“For real?”

“Sure, why not.”

Harold switches hands. His left takes over pinning John’s hand to his head, freeing up his right to strike at the inside of John’s elbow. He forms his fist and jabs precisely, and John immediately lets go of Harold’s head, his arm folding up, bringing it protectively toward himself. “You can follow that up with a knee to the groin,” John adds, for future reference.

But Harold does it there and then. John crumples to his knees on the mat, bent over almost in the fetal position with a hand between his thighs. He probably should have clarified that last part.

“I’ve created a monster,” he grits out, trying to laugh, then hisses as his cock responds. Oh hell, he _likes_ it when Harold hurts him.

Harold is staring down at him, horrified with this turn of events. “I didn’t intend to actually _connect_ ,” he protests, bending to squeeze John’s shoulder in apology. “Do you need some ice?”

[[like and reblog on tumblr]](https://singingsweetyorange.tumblr.com/post/180654107693/ive-created-a-monster-he-grits-out-trying-to)

John shakes his head and holds his hand up, gesturing for Harold to back off. He can’t let Finch see that he’s getting hard over this. “I’ll be fine in a minute. You can go. I’d say we’re definitely done for now.”

Harold tuts. “I’m hardly going to leave you on the floor in agony.” He rubs soothingly between John’s shoulder-blades, and John almost whimpers, because that just increases his painful arousal. “I’ll fetch you some painkillers.”

John takes some slow, deep breaths, and tries not to think about Harold pressing his knee between his legs for reasons other than self-defense.

—

It’s over two weeks before they next meet up outside of work. They’ve been busy with the Numbers, but then Harold has refused a couple of invitations even on the few nights the Machine has been quiet. John tries to explain that he’s not mad at Harold for what happened, if anything he’s proud. He can now rest assured that if Harold comes up against trouble in the field, he can more than handle himself.

Really though, John’s a mess. Ever since Finch helped him up off the floor and got him to stretch out on the couch, he’s been having a lot of dreams. They range from the mundane to the downright explicit, and John is ashamed of all of them. He has no right to think of Harold this way. Hasn’t Finch given him enough?

It is with a certain amount of trepidation that they set up in John’s apartment again. As promised, John begins with a lecture on pressure points. He doesn’t touch Finch or ask Finch to touch him, even though some things are difficult to demonstrate without. He trusts that once Harold knows where they are and how to use them, he’ll be able to target them in whatever situation he finds himself.

Barely half an hour later, Harold’s phone beeps. They have a new Number. John is almost relieved to end things so soon.

—

“I want you to teach me how to get out of zip ties.” Harold says, one day the following week. They’re in the library, and Harold upends a packet of plastic zip ties on the desk. He starts securing himself to the arms of his computer chair before John can object. 

“Harold,” he says, concerned. “Did you hear from Root?”

“No, why would I have?”

“Because you’re panicking.” John tells him, quietly. He takes out his knife and cuts Harold loose. “We’re not doing this right now. You need some tea. And some sleep, too.”

“Why won’t you _help_ me?” Harold snaps.

John turns away and closes his eyes. “I’m trying to.”

—

Harold calls him up late and tells John he's already outside. John is in the middle of working out alone. He's lifting some small weights, nothing strenuous. He buzzes Harold up.

Finch seems nervous. His presence keeps putting John on edge lately, although John's self-aware enough to know that most of that is his own fault. Wanting things he can't have.

Finch says: "I watched you take out ten men today with only your fists and a fire extinguisher. It reminded me...how much I still have to learn."

John frowns. "You've come a long way since we started this. And you haven't needed to go out in the field so much lately." Just saying these words relaxes Reese a bit. He won't be responsible for Finch trying something in the field and failing because his teaching hasn't been good enough. He worries about that a lot.

Harold surprises him. "Don't be so complacent!" He starts taking his coat off. John raises his eyebrows. "Teach me something. Anything." Harold rolls his sleeves up. John gulps. He's afraid of Harold the way he has never been afraid looking down the barrel of a gun, or twenty guns at once.

Harold is looking at him expectantly.

"I will, if you tell me what she did to you." John says, hoarsely. It's a delaying tactic, because he doesn't trust himself to touch Finch right now. And besides, Harold's gone long enough without talking about it. A little sharing, with the added protection of some months' distance between him and the memories...it might help.

Harold scowls. "You know very well. She drugged me and put me back in a wheelchair."

_Back_ in a wheelchair. It hadn't dawned on John until this moment the effect of that added humiliation for Harold. He swallows. "How? How did she drug you?"

Harold stands there for a long moment, long enough that John thinks maybe he'll turn around and walk out, refuse to talk about it. But then he says: "She stuck a needle in my neck."

John's hands clench into fists involuntarily. He shoves them behind his back, forces the fingers to uncurl, and goes into parade rest.

Finch looks...odd. There's an aggressive air about him which John has never seen before, but it's brittle, too. He's advancing on John with one palm out, waving at him. "And of course, she cut my hand. Sliced it open with a razor. Would you like to examine the scar, John?"

Slowly, John shakes his head.

Harold drops his hand. "I didn't think so." He keeps walking toward John, his uneven steps heavy on the hardwood floor. "She shot Alicia Corwin dead right in front of me and then dragged her body from the car. I watched as she tortured and finally killed Weeks." He stops inches from John, voice low and urgent. "So you understand why I want to gather any skill I possibly can, for the future. I'm not a violent man, Mr. Reese, but there are lengths I will go to, to protect the Machine, that you can't even _imagine_."

John's stomach curls up into an agonized knot. The eye contact is intense.

Harold flashes him a smile, there and gone again in the blink of an eye. "Stop trying to shelter me. It's far, far too late for that."

John nods. "I get it. You can handle this."

"Excellent." Finch walks away, giving John his personal space back.

John envisions himself reaching out, turning Harold to face him again with a firm hand on his shoulder, and slamming their mouths together. But he doesn't do that. He goes to set up the mats.

They go over the basics of sparring for two and a half hours, hands all over each other by necessity. After Finch leaves, John furiously jerks off in the shower, hating himself.

—

They fall back into a pattern of daily sessions, after that. They ought to be sick of the sight of each other, working on the Numbers all day, then over to John’s apartment at night for another lesson, but instead John craves this extra time together, likes knowing where Harold will be after dark. It soothes his fears of losing Finch to Root again. A couple of times, Harold sleeps over instead of leaving after a session. John happily tucks himself in on the couch and surreptitiously watches Finch fall asleep in his bed.

Finch’s technique is improving. He’s not hesitating to throw a punch anymore, but he’s also not hurt John by accident again. They touch more often than they ever have before - it’s necessary, to practice the moves. But it happens in the library, too. Harold catches John’s arm to get his attention, or pats his back to congratulate him when John thinks of a new angle with which to approach a Number. John drinks every one of these moments in, savors them. His skin is hypersensitive in ways it hasn’t been since the CIA dulled tactile tenderness out of him by way of severe drought.

All of this means that…while Harold is casual about it, opening up his personal space as an area that John is allowed, even expected, to occupy, John is struggling to keep himself in check. He has been allowed infinitely more freedom, but it means that much more temptation. He knows what Harold sounds like when he’s out of breath, panting with exertion, groaning with effort. He knows Harold’s warmth, the feel of his side crashing into John’s front, the smell of his sweat, the sight of the small of his back when his t-shirt rides up. It’s all so intimate, inappropriately so, but John knows he can’t stop teaching Harold without explaining why.

—

He distracts himself by buying new equipment to train on. The loft is starting to look more and more like his personal gym. At least it’s a good way to fill up all that space. Slightly more discreet than another crate of weapons.

At the start of their next session, John is hammering away at a boxing speed bag, a continuous loud clatter filling the space. He doesn’t hear Harold let himself in, but he senses it, chooses not to acknowledge his presence right away.

John bounces on his toes, all his attention focused on the speed bag. It’s hanging from a stand at roughly head height, about the size and shape of a melon. It makes a sound every time it hits the metal plate fixed above it.

Confidently, John spins three-sixty degrees on his toes and slices at the bag with his elbow to finish off.

Harold clears his throat and says “Very impressive, Mr. Reese.”

Reese settles back down on his heels and turns to face Harold, smoothing his own hair flat with a sweep of his hand.

In the few minutes John’s back was turned, Harold has stripped out of his suit. Right there in the middle of John’s living space. It’s like that first session all over again: the loose top and shorts, showing far too much skin. Harold’s hand towel and water bottle are close by on the table.

“Hi, Harold. Wanna try it yourself?”

The bag is still rocking under its own momentum. John stops it with his hand. He wishes his own heart were as easy to silence.

Harold steps up. He looks curious, but unsure. “How do I…?”

John keeps his hand on the bag. “It’s all about getting into a rhythm. When you hit, you want to let it bounce three times. One Two. Three.” He twists the bag up and away, then toward Finch, then away again. “When it comes back at you after three, that’s when you strike.” John demonstrates, briefly, and Finch narrows his eyes, watching. “Try to hit twice with each hand: left, left, right, right.” Harold raises his fists, but John forestalls him. “It might be easier to start out with open hands? Like this.” He taps at the bag with outstretched fingers, so it swings more slowly. “Just brush it with your fingertips.” His hands revolve in small circles in front of him.

Harold chuckles. “You look like a kitten batting at a ball of string.”

John laughs, moving back to give Harold space to work.

Harold attempts to copy John’s movements, but more often than not he’s catching the bag in his palms and pushing it away, instead of hitting it.

“Don’t let it get too high up…” John instructs, wondering if he should have lowered the stand a fraction to compensate for their height difference.

He keeps stopping and starting again, losing the rhythm frequently, but slowly Harold’s timing improves. He keeps dropping his hands though. Instead of holding them both up together, whichever arm isn’t reaching keeps falling to his side, so John reminds him: “Boxers use these to train themselves to keep their hands up during a fight. If you drop your dormant hand, when you switch over you’ll either hit too hard and break rhythm…or miss.” He smiles as Harold does just that.

“Just because you make it look easy,” Harold grumbles, but he follows John’s advice. Ten minutes later his form is perfect, and John tells him to try with closed fists.

“Pretend the bag is Root’s head, if you want.” John knows _he_ does.

Harold frowns. “No, thank you.” He bites his lower lip as he concentrates on hitting the bag.

John takes a step back and watches. He’s quite slow still, but perfectly accurate. After five minutes of this, he calls Harold off to have a break and then try again with more complexity. “It’s left-left, right-right again, but first you wanna hit forward…” John demonstrates with the front of his knuckles, and then on the second punch he hits the bag with the outer side of his fist. “Forward, down, forward, down.”

Harold looks kind of ragged when he steps up to the bag again. There’s a hint of sweat at his temples. John is mildly concerned. Physically, aerobically, he has worked Harold much harder than this before. They both know Harold’s level of fitness is quite low, for obvious reasons, but he has been doing better.

This time when he watches Harold’s stance, John realizes the problem. Harold is holding his breath. His chin is tucked down. His shoulders are too high up. He’s in pain and working through it regardless.

“Stop, stop, stop.” John says, catching the bag and holding it out of Harold’s way.

“What did I do wrong this time?” Harold groans.

John grimaces. “Not wrong, just…you’re holding your breath. Are your shoulders hurting?”

Harold visibly drops his stiff shoulders. He makes a non-committal face. That tells John he’s right, but Harold doesn’t want to admit it.

John scratches an itch above his own left eye. “When you hold your breath, it causes muscle tension, and in your case, added stress on the spinal column. We don’t want that.”

Harold folds his arms. “What do you suggest?”

“Let me show you.” John moves closer, hand on Harold’s shoulder, guiding him away from the boxing equipment. Once they’re standing still again, he says “Take a deep breath for me? Nice and slow…” He holds his index finger about two centimeters above the slope of Harold’s shoulder. When Harold breathes in, his shoulder lifts and touches John’s fingertip. When he breathes out, his shoulders drop again. “See?”

“Not really.”

“If we can teach you to breathe without hunching your shoulders, we could reduce your pain and improve your balance.”

Harold scoffs. “I can’t help the way I breathe. I’ve only been doing it for fifty-odd years.”

John smiles. “You almost told me your age, then.”

Harold glares at him.

But John thinks this is a real possibility for improvement. Not only for self-defense, but in general, for Harold’s everyday comfort levels. “This time when you breathe in, try to meet my hand with your stomach.” His right palm hovers close to Harold’s tummy.

Harold looks utterly perplexed.

John remembers reading it in a martial arts textbook once. Expanding the abdomen outward forces the diaphragm down and prevents the shoulders lifting.

“You don’t want to be breathing from here,” John explains, poking two fingertips gently at Harold’s chest. “It needs to come from much further down, about here,” he adds, indicating the level of Harold’s diaphragm.

And then he realizes what he’s doing. He’s slowly rubbing Harold’s stomach through his thin gray top. He’s so warm, and he smells really good. John would happily bury his face in the softness there.

They are standing far too close. Enough to drag his lips across the five o’ clock shadow on Harold’s cheek. Resisting the urge to kiss him takes every ounce of self-restraint John possesses.

There’s a long, awkward pause, and John removes his hand, trying to steer himself back on track. He has a bad feeling that he’s blushing.

Then Harold abruptly backs away and says something alarming. “Mr. Reese, if I thought you were attempting to take advantage of these sessions…”

John panics.

What he means to say is: ‘I’m not trying to.’

What actually comes out of his mouth is: “I’m trying not to.”

Harold breathes deeply. From his diaphragm, probably. “I see.” He backs away some more. His expression is nothing but disapproval.

A lead weight settles in John’s stomach. “Harold, wait.”

Harold collects his clothes, picks up his towel and water bottle, and closes the door quietly on his way out.

“Shit,” John whispers, and lowers himself to the floor.


	2. [Harold]

John doesn’t run after him, which is for the best.

Harold lets himself into another apartment on the next floor down to change back into his clothes. (He owns the entire building, of course.)

He refuses to think about what has just become apparent to him.

Harold leaves the building and hails a cab. He won’t go back to the library, it’s late. It has absolutely nothing to do with avoiding the first place John might look for him.

Harold watches out of the car window as the city passes him by, relieved that the driver does not attempt to engage him in conversation. He tips extra generously for that.

When he closes the door to one of his safehouses, Harold drops his kit bag on the couch and goes to make himself some tea.

It is only once safely installed in his favorite armchair that he allows himself to unpack the situation.

These are the facts: John is attracted to him, sexually. Their private lessons have induced or possibly exacerbated said attraction. Until tonight, Harold was unaware of John’s predicament. He accused John of plotting to seduce him, and then walked out.

…Not his most diplomatic reaction, to be sure. He could have handled that better.

But he was in the midst of sudden revelation, and John was standing far too close. Harold’s overwhelming, defensive instinct had been to get far away from him. Retreat to a solitary space.

Harold doesn’t know what to make of this. He considers John a friend. A good friend. In so far as people like them have friends. Over the past eighteen months, they have brought on board Detectives Carter and Fusco. John acquired Bear, who completes their odd little family. A bond forged out of necessity and common interest, rather than blood. A bond strong enough that it compelled Harold to stand on a rooftop with John in a bomb vest and vow to save him, or die trying.

He thought John understood that. How vital he is, how _necessary_.

Why on earth does John require sex in order to feel secure in their partnership? It’s absurd.

Harold knows that John…has needs. He has endeavored to make allowances for them with the help of Ms. Morgan. He did not expect to be involved beyond that (already obtrusive) point.

These training sessions, then. By requesting them, had Harold pushed the boundaries of their relationship somewhere it was never meant to go? No, that was unfair. Everything had been progressing well enough until Reese changed the rules.

Frustrated with this line of thought, Harold stands up and starts to pace. He wishes he had Bear for company, but the dog is at John’s.

One thing is clear. The self-defense training will have to stop, at least for the time being.

Harold picks up his rapidly cooling tea and gulps it down. Then he finds his laptop, puts John out of his mind the best he can and focuses on measuring the spread of damage caused by Kara Stanton’s virus. Or rather: his virus, which she unwittingly uploaded. The Machine is starting to become sluggish about designating Numbers. This is bad news for fighting crime, but evidence that his plan to free his creation is in motion. He goes to bed having almost successfully distracted himself. When he gets under the covers his hand rests naturally on his own stomach. Remembering the warmth of John’s hand there, he immediately removes it, discomforted.

—

The next morning, Harold considers avoiding John for the whole day. He could run some errands for any of his other identities. But he dismisses this behavior as childish, and goes into the library as usual, regardless of the appearance of a new Number (there isn’t one).

John is already there. He and Bear seem to be engaged in a round of ‘find the hidden firearm’, a game Harold heavily disapproves of, but which John insists is ‘useful’.

They avoid eye contact as Harold hangs up his coat. John paces back and forth behind the desk, keeping the computers between him and Harold. Finally Finch summons his courage and says “Mr. Reese.”

John doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t lift his gaze from the floor. Bear trots past Harold carrying John’s handgun in his mouth, proudly presenting it to the surly man. John takes it, flat on its side in his palm. Then Bear comes back around the table and settles down on his bed, alert and expectant.

So now John is angry with him _and_ holding a gun. Perhaps recklessly, Harold proceeds with what he has decided to say regardless.

“I want to apologize for the embarrassment I caused you. My hasty exit last night was not the most tactful, perhaps even cruel. I am sorry for that, and I hope we can move past this.”

John stops pacing. He looks terribly confused. “Am I not fired? This doesn’t sound like you’re firing me.”

The frustration from last night comes flooding back. How could he possibly…! Harold makes his voice be calm. ”Of course not.”

John nods, and puts the gun down on the desk. “Thanks. So we can forget all about it?”

Something twists in Harold’s gut. Guilt and sadness. “If you prefer. But I think…we should talk about things, before we put it behind us.”

All the tension that went out of John when Harold said he wasn’t fired comes back into the line of his shoulders. “What’s there to say?”

Harold looks at where they’re standing, either side of the round table, confrontational. Harold stood right here, the day he and Nathan had their last fight. He shakes his head. “Come and sit down.” He turns and makes his way back down the corridor, to the large window seat at the top of the stairs. It takes a while for John to follow him, but he does. Bear gets up too, but sinks down on the floor again when he realizes they’re not going outside.

Harold gets comfortable, trying to marshal his thoughts into words which will reassure John while also letting him down gently.

John sits beside him with his elbows on his thighs, hands dangling between his legs, carefully not touching any part of Harold.

Harold stretches his bad leg out in front of him and ignores the ever-present pain in his back. “I think of you as my closest friend, John.”

John swallows, his eyes wet. “I know that.”

“I trust you with the Machine, I trust you with my life.”

John swipes at the end of his nose with the back of his hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Harold leans back. “Meaning?” He wants to jump in and disagree, but he’s also aware that he should probably let John talk first.

John visibly sucks his teeth. “I couldn’t protect you from Root, and I couldn’t teach you how to protect yourself without …” He covers his face with both hands. The next part is muffled, but Harold still hears it. “God, Harold, I’m sorry.”

He looks and sounds so utterly miserable that Harold puts his hand on the nape of John’s neck, an attempt at simple comfort. But John flinches as if burned, so Harold stops touching him at once.

“Firstly…I heard from Detective Fusco you were in the middle of a firefight with HR at the time Root found me. Not even someone with your incredible skills can be in two places at once. I’ve never blamed you for that, never. And then you flew across the country to get me back. You went far beyond what I expected. I have no complaints there.”

John uncovers his face. He’s not crying, thankfully. He hits his left thigh with his hand. “I still should’ve done something.”

“How, exactly?” Harold asks, but John only shakes his head.

They sit in stubborn silence. Harold tries to come up with a suitable refutation for the second part of John’s self-recrimination. It feels like walking on rapidly shifting sand.

“As I’ve said before, I’m not very good with human interaction. Did I give you any indications during training that could have been misinterpreted…?”

“No,” John says flatly.

Harold takes a breath. “But you’ve never…”

“This didn’t start because of the lessons. They didn’t help. Just weren’t the cause. If I’m honest, I’ve felt this way ever since you found me.”

Harold folds his arms, gazing uncomfortably at his shoes. “You mustn’t mistake gratitude for desire, John.”

John laughs, cracked and hollow. “I’m not.”

Harold’s heart is beating slow and heavy in his chest. None of this makes any sense. He looks at John and suddenly thinks he doesn’t know this man at all. “You can’t be serious.”

A second later, John is on his feet. He towers over Harold, his face full of desperation. “Harold, I’m not just grateful, I _love_ you! You have a massive brain but a thick skull, I swear. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I feel!”

Harold gapes up at him.

Bear is standing up, responding to John’s aggressive body language, coming to Harold’s aid. John takes off before Bear can bark at him, thundering down the stairs without collecting his gun or coat.

Harold frowns after him, unable to give chase, absently patting Bear’s head when it nudges against his knee. “It’s alright, Bear, it’s fine.” But even as he says it, his lower lip begins to tremble.

— 

Instead of checking on the Machine, Harold vacates the library and goes for a walk with Bear. He’ll pass a couple of payphones on the way, just in case.

His eyes are tired, his tread heavy. He doesn’t check on John’s location. They walk aimlessly for a while, zigzagging through alternate blocks. After a while it becomes a game, familiar practice at shaking off a non-existent tail. Bear is more alert than Harold is, keeps him from stepping out into unsafe roads. Finally, when he’s too sore and hungry to walk any longer, he takes a shortcut through a shopping mall and rides in a lift to another one of his safehouses. He lowers himself into a chair and stares at the ceiling.

Harold should be working. He could find work to do. John is probably out there right now, chasing down incidents with the help of a police scanner.

All Harold can think is that he has failed him. He had thought their partnership a successful one. Both without immediate relatives, without ordinary responsibilities. Independent enough to carry out separate tasks, good-hearted enough to work to ensure the other person’s safety. The perfect team.

He has been kidding himself.

John…over-identifies with Numbers, sometimes. Harold cannot blame him. He has done so himself, on occasion. He has seen himself in young Caleb, in Daniel Casey, even in Root.

Even with that knowledge, he has failed to recognize the extent to which John’s history makes him vulnerable, emotionally.

Arriving into the man’s life at such a delicate time, so soon after Jessica’s death. Putting right everything which he could possibly fix. Trying to give John everything he could, to help him feel less like wanting to end himself. (Because if he could fix him, maybe Harold could forgive himself for building the piece of technology which destroyed John’s life.)

But of course John wouldn’t latch onto the possessions, the material wealth. He’s always been a better man than Harold was, before the ferry.

He had thought maybe the work was enough. Work was always enough for Harold, long before he made himself rich.

John had told him once that he was happy, because of the job. What Harold had failed to hear…was that John was happy because the job meant seeing him.

_So, thanks, Harold. It was fun._

_Pretty sure I’d be dead if you hadn’t found me._

_Someone found me, gave me a purpose._

_Who’s looking after you these days? Someone new._

John had been trying to tell him, all this time.

And now there was nothing he could do, to make that better.

He’d gone to the library that morning under the impression he could overcome the awkwardness between them by sweeping the question of sexual contact under the proverbial rug and refocusing John’s attention on their shared mission. Instead he had failed to take into account the romantic component of John’s feelings - and insulted the man in addition to rejecting him. No wonder he’d reacted with anger.

John had only raised his voice at Harold on a few occasions over the years, in stressful moments when lives were at stake, but never before on such a personal level. It...hurt. More than he’d thought possible.

Harold puts his hand on his chest and rubs it across his shirt, trying to soothe himself. He’s afraid that he is going to lose John now. Maybe he’ll stay around physically for the sake of the Numbers, but their friendship, their camaraderie…will that gradually disappear? Will John only visit him in person on rare occasions and be strictly business over the comms? And what if he does leave for good? Would he revert to drinking his life away? Harold’s heart gives a particularly painful squeeze at the thought.

No. John will be better than that. And Harold will do anything in his power to persuade John how much his presence, his friendship, is needed and welcomed.

—

The Machine’s functions are winding down, according to plan. This gives Harold some time to do that. He invites John out on excursions, to the park, to the cinema. Reese does not turn down any invitation to spend time together. Nor does he give in to any temptation which such proximity might produce for him.

But eventually, danger makes itself known to them. Harold finds himself separated from John by a gathering storm, and doesn’t think twice about getting in a small aircraft and braving the turbulent skies. He spends the next several hours trapped on Owen Island with a handful of possible killers, and is privately grateful for the amount of additional knowledge he now has at his disposal thanks to John’s defense lessons. He feels marginally safer. In the event, that knowledge doesn’t help him to escape from or subdue the fake Rollins, and he’s very lucky that Detective Carter’s timing is so impeccable.

Afterward, they meet up at a good vantage point to watch the ocean, away from the police station. When Harold first walks onto the deck and stands at John’s side, he lifts a hand to squeeze Harold’s shoulder. Harold knows at once what John means by it. First, that John is relieved they both made it through this ordeal. And second, that Harold is forgiven for what came before. Once this silent communication has passed between them, Harold finds he can relax. The world is growing ever more dangerous, but despite the disparity between the nature of their feelings, they’re no longer at risk of hurting one another by way of permanent separation.

—

Even so, Harold keeps an eye on John for signs that he is pulling away from him. His observations are encouraging. John continues to speak in a familiar way, doesn’t retreat behind a blank wall. He teases and jokes with Finch as he has always done. The only unusual interaction is when John expresses jealousy over Harold spending time with Monica Jacobs, tries to persuade him to confess an attraction for her. Harold is thinking only of the case, as usual, has not noticed himself enjoying the young woman’s company in particular, beyond their having some shared interests. But he recognizes that John’s odd outbursts, although cloaked in much good humor, must be originating from an ongoing source of pain. For the remainder of their time helping her, Harold tries to ensure that nothing he says to Ms Jacobs could possibly be construed as flirting, in order to protect John. It’s an awkward impasse, but it will do.

—

Unfortunately, it’s not long before Harold finds himself once again zip tied to a chair. He barely manages to push aside the flashbacks to Root. A few months ago, he asked John to teach him to escape these and John had refused. Harold is quietly furious with him, until they drag John in, barely conscious, with a fresh graze on his cheekbone. Then Harold feels a sort of deadly calm settle over him. The same thing seems to have happened to John. His eyes are open but he doesn’t react to anything in his surroundings, let alone catch Harold’s eye. Harold begins to worry about how hard they hit his head.

Makris forces the gun into Lou’s hand and starts waving it around. Leon is saved by an empty chamber, then John. Harold does not have time to process his relief that John is spared before he’s in the firing line himself. He can’t look at John now. He always warned him he might die, but to sit round the table and _watch_ _…_ it’s all he can do to reassure Lou before the gun goes off.

Except at that instant John _moves_. The violence with which he takes control of the situation is startling, this close. Harold ducks awkwardly in the chair, trying to push himself out of the way, tugging fruitlessly at the restraints.

Were he not tied down, he would have tried to get Leon and the Number out of there. Instead, he can only watch. Reese steals a gun and systematically takes out Makris’ men. Behind him, Makris tries to shoot John, discovers the gun is empty, and gets knocked to the floor by Lou.

The pensioner shakes out his hand then turns to the rest of them, smirking. Harold and Leon exchange a wide-eyed glance.

Impressed, John congratulates Lou on his quick thinking, while cutting Leon free.

He comes to Harold next. In addition to slicing through the bindings, he gets on his knees and squeezes Harold’s arm, bringing their heads close together. “You okay?” John murmurs.

Harold swallows and nods, staring down at his own wrists, his panic ebbing away. He takes a deep breath and makes himself look directly at his face. John’s eyes are so much brighter now than they were a few minutes ago. His expression had been utterly blank, before he kicked the table, refusing to watch Harold die.

He wouldn’t have anyway, thanks to Lou palming the only bullet, but Reese didn’t know that.

Just another time John has saved Harold’s life. All in a day’s work for the Man in the Suit. It hardly registers as an unusual event. But it still means something, that John waited to act until it was Harold at the wrong end of the gun.

—

“I heard what Lou said to you.”

Harold pauses in the middle of the corridor, before taking off his coat. “Oh. You were listening?”

“Always.” John isn’t in the least apologetic. He says it like a fact, like a...vow. Like the vow Harold Martin once made to Grace Hendricks. Offering her his life, only to have to take it away again.

Harold is surprised at John for raising the subject. He supposes that John is trying to comfort him, but it can’t be easy for him either. Harold tries not to look at him too closely, but the evidence of his pain can be found in the shimmering glint of tears in John’s dark eyes. “Some of us don’t-” John’s voice catches, “get to grow old with the one we love. You ask me, Lou’s the luckiest guy I know.” He smiles sadly at his own joke.

Harold stares blankly at his computer screens, overwhelmed by such a display of emotion. John is reminding him of how much he understands what Harold is going through. It makes Harold feel worse. John wouldn’t understand so well, if not for Harold’s actions. His past refusal to save Jessica, and his present inability to be the person John now loves. Harold should acknowledge John’s phenomenal kindness in some way, but the only thing he manages to say is the one thought which has given him solace over the past few years of loneliness. “I’ll grow old with her, Mr. Reese, just from afar. And beyond that…it’s best not to think about it.” But thinking is all he does.

John leaves and takes his pain with him, and Harold is left to wallow in his own. On the screen, he brings up the photo of Grace, then folds his arms and hunches over the desk, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the faint sting of his sore wrists. Part of him wants to curl into a ball, and so holding onto himself like this is the next best thing.

The picture was taken by Grace’s friend Elena, on a night out at a restaurant in Astoria. In the image, Grace has her hands on his shoulders. He’d helped paint her nails that afternoon - a rich purple. She’d known that was his favorite color and bought the polish specially. His hands had trembled at first, tired from coding late into the night. Grace had dabbed at the misplaced drop of polish with a tissue and encouraged him to keep going. He’d calmed as he settled in to the task, Grace’s fond smile filling him with peace.

Harold misses that smile. He misses everything about her. He doesn’t think that will ever go away, no matter how many years pass by.

He stares at the photo for a long time, reminiscing.

It’s only much later that Harold realizes. He’d forgotten to thank John for saving him.

—

The sunrise next morning finds Harold walking through Washington Square Park, toward the benches where he can safely blend into the crowd and watch Grace’s house. With every step, he knows he ought to turn around and go back, do anything else but this. And yet, he cannot help himself.

Yesterday, while trying to persuade Lou to leave the memory of his wife Marilyn behind, Harold had lied. Who was he to advise Lou to move on, when he couldn’t do it himself?

Harold takes a seat and checks his watch. By this time, Grace would be stirring with the light through her window. She didn’t have an alarm clock. She was a naturally early riser. Depending on the day, she’d either read a while in bed or go downstairs to fix herself a hot drink. Half an hour later, she’d be dressed and ready to start painting, or otherwise leave the house. In four years of living together, her routine hardly varied more than that.

_Go to her, Harold, today, while you still have time!_

He could do it, right now. He could walk past the park fences, down the road, through the gate and up the steps. He could have all that again. The tranquility and stability of a life with Grace. He could trust that the government was no longer looking for Ingram’s silent partner. That they would hardly notice a change in the romantic status of an artist who could never hurt anyone.

But what then? Even if she welcomed him back with open arms, he could never escape the work he had started with John.

He’s in an impossible position. Harold’s heart can’t have what it wants and it can’t give John anything in return for the other man’s devotion. The best he can do is try to hang onto both of them in whatever little ways he can.

—

Harold’s decision to sit near Grace’s house turns out to have been a mistake. It leads Root to the existence of Grace, enables Root to use her as leverage, to get Harold to go with her.

He has been expecting Root to make contact again soon, but he would have preferred it if Grace had not met and agreed to have coffee with someone who knows he is alive.

Of course, a year ago John also met her. But Harold knew well enough by then, Reese would never say anything simply to cause her pain, whereas Root might.

They walk and Root enjoys explaining the meaning of Harold’s own code to him, proving how clever she is, trying to impress him. Asking what he did to prevent the Machine from defending itself.

Harold keeps his hands in his coat pockets, praying that fellow pedestrians are not listening to Root too closely. If they weren’t in public, he could try to knock her out. John has taught him that much.

That’s what Reese would like Harold to do, at least. Break away from her, get back to him. He wonders how John is faring in police custody.

And he contemplates, miserably, what the last year must have been like, for him. _Ever since you found me_ , John had said. That first year, getting to know each other. Then finding out Harold’s heart belongs to Grace. Then Harold going missing, leaving John with the burden of the Numbers, alone. No wonder he’d begged the Machine for a different option.

John and Grace, both threatened in different ways by Root. To protect them both, Harold suppresses his fear and stays by Root’s side.

—

Root in God Mode is even more terrifyingly accurate at shooting people. She hits an approaching Decima agent through a closed elevator door. When it opens, Harold unwisely follows her into the confined space.

“Your friend John’s been keeping up with us. How is that?”

“I don’t know,” Harold replies quietly, gingerly watching the man on the floor for signs of life.

“I wasn’t asking you, Harold.” Root’s cheerfulness fades a moment later. “What do you mean, you don’t know either? You know everything!”

“It’s an AI, not a personal assistant,” Harold says pointedly. He knows Root has been working inside the government for the past few months, gathering information.

Root drags Harold out by the arm when they reach street level.

Outside the public library, she stops again, in full view of a camera. “No, but seriously, I want to know.” She points the gun at Harold.

He winces. Both because of her heavy handed tactics, and the fact that he’s not entirely sure how much of its previous programming the Machine has broken through. Or whether he wants it to save him, if that means Root goes after John next. Eliminating her competition.

“It’s in the glasses?” Root says, triumphantly, lowering the gun and snatching the frames from Harold’s face. John did the same thing during one of their lessons. She grinds them under her heel, cracking both lenses.

 _I won’t let Root get to you. Not again._ Reese had said, in the Library. Harold had heard the truth in the words but hadn’t known John had taken additional precautions.

Harold gazes sadly at his broken glasses as Root hurries him away. John will be alright, though, at least physically. Root doesn’t know Harold gave him God Mode too.

— 

They’re in the park. Root has just commandeered a vehicle. Harold is opening the door, when he hears a familiar shout.

“Finch!” Sprinting after him, so fast his feet barely touch the ground.

Harold hesitates for a moment, because John’s voice means safety. But Harold just saw another man die, killed by the government for knowing about the Machine. He knows what he has to do. He gets in the truck with Root. “I know where it is. I’ll take you to it.”

He hopes John will understand, in time.

Just to be sure, Harold tells Root to take a few meaningless detours to throw off any tail.

Root checks the rear view, puzzled by him. “Do you not want John to follow us?”

“Not particularly. For starters, he might kill you. I don’t want that. For him or for you. And secondly, he has been through enough because of the Machine. Where we’re going is dangerous. I would prefer he not be involved in that.”

— 

Reese does catch up to them at the empty nuclear containment facility. Despite Harold’s dire prediction, he doesn’t kill Root. Instead he patches up the shoulder wound which Ms. Shaw gives her.

One helicopter ride later, Shaw none too gently helps an unresisting Root climb out. While watching them, Harold takes John to one side.

“You know about the laptop. Now you understand why you really shouldn’t care about me so much. I’m the reason you couldn’t get to Jessica in time.” Harold waits for the explosion, the efficient move to strangle him, the icy stare, the disappointed frown.

But John gives him none of these. He just shakes his head and pulls Harold’s broken glasses from a pocket of his coat.

“Here. Found them on the street. I don’t know if you wanna get the lenses repaired, or...” His mouth curls up to one side, sheepishly.

Harold takes them, relieved, responding to John’s lighter mood. “You put a bug on me.” He tries to frown disapprovingly, but he suspects it’s not working, at all.

Reese falls into step with him as Root and Shaw catch up. “You called the cops on me.”

“Is there any chance that makes us even?”

— 

The Numbers come back, and life returns to relative normality, now that the Machine is out of danger.

Harold visits Ms. Groves in Stone Ridge Hospital once a week. He regrets having had to commit her, but the way she disassociated after losing track of the Machine and being shot by Ms. Shaw left him with few options. She is safer there than at his side, and can do less damage to others than if left to her own devices. He hopes that instructing the doctors to forbid her from using a cell phone or watching television will prevent the Machine from contacting her. Root is far from insane, and they both know it. She makes that very clear. Harold is more afraid of her truths than her lies.

— 

Harold waits nearby as John says farewell to Mr. Salazar, then slides into his vacated seat. “I realize now I never did hear how you came to enlist in the army.”

“’Cause I never told you, Finch. I’m a very private person.” John uses Harold’s own words to rebuff him, and that stings.

It isn’t meant to. John’s tone is light. He turns to Harold and smiles. John nudges Harold to cheer up and passes him a beer, delicately dropping a shot of whiskey into it. Despite telling John earlier that he disliked the mere thought of this drink, Harold takes a sip to show willing. John watches with an intent gaze as Harold downs a few more swallows.

Harold rests the glass on the bar. The beer makes him faintly queasy. He still wants to know about the precise catalyst for John’s taking up a career in the military. He wouldn’t have asked if he weren’t already painfully curious. He knows everything there is to know about what happened after, but this is such a pivotal moment in John’s life. If Harold sits here for long enough, will John feel like divulging his secrets? Probably not.

Harold has a wild urge to tell John some of his own stories from adolescence. Large-scale pranks with Nathan. His first kiss. A disastrous high school prom which ended with a barn fire.

He bites his tongue on all of these. John won’t be guilted into sharing.

So they sit in silence. It’s the first time in a long while that Harold has felt awkward around him. The disparities in their personalities and backgrounds are suddenly made clearer by such an ordinary social setting. If it weren’t for the Numbers, they would never have become friends. High school Harold would likely have dismissed John as a jock. Less gregarious than Nathan, Harold imagines a young John shyly struggling to focus on his studies while being frequently mobbed by girls. Having to turn down every one, politely but firmly.

And this train of thought raises another question. His attraction to Harold…has attraction to men long been a facet of John’s life experience, is Harold the only one he has loved?

Harold takes another sip of the drink, inwardly chastising himself. Does it _matter_? It doesn’t change what he thinks about John, either way. Mr. Reese is capable of many things that Harold himself is not.

— 

Harold cannot possibly prevent his voice from shaking. “John, are you shot?”

The response is an agonized groan. _“My vest caught it. Think my rib’s broken.”_

Harold sinks back in his chair, part sympathy for John’s pain, part relief that John is alive to tell him so. For several minutes while Finch listened to Collier’s ‘lesson’, he’d had no way of knowing. He’d strained his ears for the sound of John’s breathing on the line, but there was too much else happening to be sure.

Harold doesn’t think he needs to ask this question, but just to be certain: “And Kruger?”

_“He’s dead, Finch.”_

As he suspected. This Number goes on the list of their failures. It hasn’t been a good day.

The sound of a door opening, then Ms. Shaw’s voice. _“I got him.”_ Harold is fiercely grateful for her assistance. To John, she adds: _“Can you walk?”_ Harold winces as he listens to John struggling to stand.

 _“I need to get to Collier.”_ John groans, once he’s on his feet. Harold feels his jaw drop. He knows Mr. Reese’s bravery and selflessness. The CIA trained him to stay on task despite anything. That level of dedication still amazes him sometimes. He doesn’t know what he would do if they lost him.

Ms. Shaw saves him from saying anything embarrassing, refusing to indulge John’s attempt at heroism. _“We’ve got to get you out of here.”_

Harold manages to find a soothing but businesslike tone. “She’s right, Mr. Reese. Another time.”

—

Harold holds the door open for them as they reach the safehouse. Sameen has her shoulder pushed into John’s armpit, not so much carrying John as acting as a human walking crutch. The sight is remarkable, considering their respective heights.

John looks pale and defeated. Shaw is grim-faced with exertion, her hair wild, slipping from its ponytail.

Once they are inside, Harold closes the door and locks it. Slowly and painstakingly, they make their way down the steps into the apartment without falling over.

Shaw unwinds John’s arm from around her shoulders and he sways toward the couch. She grabs his upper arms to stabilize him. “Alright, take it easy. You wanna sit? Here, Harold, give us a hand.”

He hurries over, adding his support at John’s shoulder and back. Between them, they get him safely onto the couch, although Reese still grimaces from pain as his body sinks down.

Shaw looks at Finch. “You didn’t move my kit, right?”

“Exactly where you left it.”

She hurries off to fetch the things she needs. John grunts softly in pain and blindly reaches for Harold’s hand, squeezing his fingers. “Sorry.” His voice is very small, the lines around his mouth tight with pain. There are tears on his eyelashes, his head tilted back.

Harold stares down at him, distressed. From the corner of his eye, he sees Shaw coming back, having retrieved her large medical bag. He quickly pulls his hand out of John's, not wanting her to see and get the wrong impression.

“Get his shirt undone,” Shaw says, as she puts her kit down on the couch and begins to rummage through it.

Harold obeys her instruction without hesitation. At Harold’s fingers on his buttons, John shifts uncomfortably, his eyes clamped shut. Harold does his best to ignore John’s embarrassment, working as quickly as he can. The bullet is lodged in John’s side, encased in the dent it made in the vest. It falls out when Harold carefully undoes the straps. Shaw catches and pockets the bullet, helping Harold to slowly lift the armor off over John’s head.

Harold can’t help his gasp when he sees the bruise on John’s skin underneath. He’s seen John’s wounds before, but this one is particularly nasty. Deep red and purple, a round groove carved into John’s side from the residual blunt force. Agonizingly painful. And the ridiculous man wanted to continue working.

John asks Harold: “What happened with your head?”

Harold attempts to inject some levity. “Kruger tried to use it as a pinata. I’m okay.”

Shaw spares him a glance. “I’ll check you over once I’m done with him. Can you go fetch us some ice? I left some in the mini fridge under the drinks table.” For half a second, his instinct is to refuse to leave John. But Sameen knows how best to help him. Harold needs to listen to her.

He detours first to the kitchen to find a towel to wrap the ice in, then returns to the table in the living area, opens the freezer drawer and upends the ice cube tray, a little clumsily. Kneeling on one leg feels unstable. He probably shouldn’t move too fast.

“I’ve had broken ribs enough times to know, Shaw.” He hears John state firmly, sounding more like himself.

When Harold comes back, John’s eyes are open, his wound covered with a large square bandage. Ms. Shaw has her stethoscope on John’s chest, listening to his lungs.

Harold sits down and holds the tightly wrapped bundle of ice close to John’s skin. He doesn’t want the weight to press against it, but John takes charge of it, tucking it into his side with his elbow.

“No punctures, but I bet number six has cracked. Can’t be certain without an x-ray.”

“I can call Dr. Tillman,” Harold suggests, fingers already scrolling for her number.

“I get shot all the time, it’s fine. Don’t make Megan tell us what we already know.”

Shaw and Finch exchange a look, then reluctantly, Harold puts his phone away and Shaw unhooks her stethoscope.

“Breathe deep and cough as often as you can.” Shaw retrieves a couple of pill bottles and drops them in Reese’s lap. “Paracetamol and an anti-inflammatory. Don’t skip them just ‘cause you’re a tough guy. Harold, watch him so he takes his meds.”

Harold tries getting to his feet again, but Shaw sighs and waves him down. “Stay put.” She disappears into the kitchen and returns with water for John, who drinks from the glass, taking one of each from the medicine bottles.

Harold is eyeing the dejected slump of John’s shoulders when suddenly there are fingers combing through his hair, finding the bump on his scalp. “Did you already ice this? It looks good, not much swelling.” Shaw has moved to stand behind Harold, leaning over the back of the couch. “Still, with a vase that sharp, you’re lucky it didn’t break skin. What were you doing before you got hit?”

“Typing,” Harold retorts, not liking this dig at his lack of awareness in his surroundings. It’s not as though he can turn to look over his shoulder.

“Relax, I’m only checking your recall.”

Harold pauses, embarrassed at being short with her while she’s helping them. “I was going through his messages.”

“How long were you knocked out? Any nausea?”

“No… I was dizzy when I woke up. Bear was a good boy, he brought me round. I was on the floor for a couple of minutes, I would guess.”

John breathes out loudly through his nose, tension in his jaw, cheek twitching. “How does your neck feel?” His voice is gentle, despite his visible flare of anger.

Harold quickly reassures him. “Fine. Fortunately, I didn’t jar it when I fell.” He tilts his chin down and cranes forward, gingerly testing his usual limits. There’s nothing terribly amiss, although he might feel differently in the morning.

Shaw pats Harold’s shoulder. She holds up her hand, six inches in front of him. “Hey, touch my finger, then touch your nose.” Harold suspects she’s making him look silly on purpose, but he follows her instruction.

“No double vision, good. Looks like you’ve got away with a very mild concussion.” She packs up her bag and returns it to its previous location. “You can walk, Reese can think. Between the two of you, you’re almost one functioning person. Drink something, get some rest. I gotta go.”

“Thank you again for your help, Ms. Shaw.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She goes up the steps and closes the door behind her.

Harold blinks at the abrupt departure. “Was it something I said?”

John starts to laugh, stops himself. “Nah, she has a date. She was complaining in the car. Some guy from the party.”

“How did she have time to…? Never mind. Could you manage to eat something?”

John shifts to sit up a little straighter, still visibly in pain. “Maybe?”

Harold is in no state to cook and John needs something he can hold in one hand. “Sandwiches.” There should still be some prepackaged in the refrigerator… a day or two past their best, but better than nothing.

When Harold returns with their food and more water, John is significantly more somber. “I let Kruger die.” He tears the cardboard and eats mechanically.

Harold is adamant. “No. You did the right thing, playing possum. Collier would have shot you, too.” Harold huffs. “Again.”

John smiles thinly, but shakes his head. “You’re not getting it. I didn’t want to save him. I could have disarmed Collier.”

“But then we wouldn’t have learned what his motivations were.” Harold also privately doubts John’s claim, given the amount of pain he’s in.

John’s mouth opens, then he seems to change his mind. He tries again with a more resigned tone: “Guess not.”

Harold takes a bite of his own sandwich, pleased with himself for talking John out of an impending guilt spiral.

Yes, they failed, but Harold vastly prefers John sitting beside him than the alternative.

They finish their food without much more discussion. Harold’s head is quietly throbbing. He offers to help John up off the couch and into one of the two bedrooms, but John doesn’t want to move even that far. “I’ll be fine sleeping here.”

“If you’re sure?” There’s a large brown throw folded over the back of the opposite couch, Harold fetches it for him. John toes off his shoes. His face screws up as he starts to twist around to lie down on his back. It’s alarming to see him hurt so much. He fusses over John, arranging cushions and shaking out the blanket.

He can’t help doubting John’s decision. “How can you be remotely comfortable here? Your ribs…”

“I’ve slept on much worse.”

Harold wishes John wouldn’t do that. Remind him of his dark past while Harold is trying to make his present somewhat bearable.

Leaning over John, Harold remembers something he should say. “I’m sorry about earlier. You shouldn’t feel ashamed of reaching out for comfort when you’re in pain. I didn’t mean to deny you that, it was a reflex. One I regret.” Harold’s fingers lightly graze the back of John’s hand.

John swallows, sliding his hand away, under the blanket. “Don’t.” The tight, flat denial fills Harold with dismay. Eyes closed, John takes a breath, then adds, in a softer voice, “Just get some rest, Finch.”

Harold straightens, his head spinning slightly with the movement. Then he carefully makes his way to the room he uses when staying overnight here, the one that used to be Nathan’s.

He pauses at the door, speaking to the floor. “I was so scared for you today. I’m very glad you’re here. Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Harold.”

— 

Harold closes the door, removes his glasses, gets undressed and lies down on his stomach on the bed. The back of his head still stings. He doesn’t want to rest it against the pillows.

Shutting his eyes brings up the image of John’s bruised ribcage. John’s hand in his. Why he does he instinctively retreat whenever John shows him affection? Why could he not simply have failed to react, let Shaw say what she liked? He keeps managing to reject and hurt his closest friend. Harold supposes he does miss when it was only the two of them working together, as selfish and ungentlemanly a thought as that is. Still, Mr. Reese and Ms. Shaw are getting on well. More positive connections can only be good for John.

Harold groans and pushes himself upright again when there’s a scrabbling at the door, followed by a tiny sneeze. He orders Bear to go guard Mr. Reese, but Bear hesitates, gazes up at him with those soulful eyes. John has clearly already given the dog instructions to keep watch on Harold. He relents, opening the door wide enough to let Bear through, fingertips grazing his tail. Bear hops up on the bed and makes himself comfortable. Harold does the same, with slightly less success.

He thinks about the scrap of fabric he found on the floor, evidence that Bear had managed to at least snap at Kruger’s heels before he fled. He thinks about willingly lying down to sleep next to his lethal attack dog, and his long history of trust issues. He thinks about the last time he and Grace shared a bed, and the last time they held hands. With her, he never got the instinct to pull away.

He dreams that she settles in on his other side, her palm gliding down the curve of his uninjured spine. A much smaller dog at the foot of the bed, gray and fluffy. He turns over sleepily to kiss her, but his elbow is caught in a grip that isn’t Grace’s, another hand tightens in his hair. Then he’s on his back and the bed is a doorframe. He has John’s forearm at his throat. Harold drifts outside his own head, watches from a different angle.

He sees the old newspaper, his hand on John’s arm, holding him at bay. The paper unfurls, sheets separating as they scatter to the floor. His fingers splay on John’s threadbare gray t-shirt as he gathers him closer.

Somewhere in the distance a phone is ringing, growing louder and more insistent. Harold’s confusion is a fog, preventing him from acting. Then all of a sudden he knows: the Machine needs him. He’s awake.

Bear’s snout nudges at his ankle. He’s back in the safehouse and on the nightstand his cell is vibrating. He pushes himself up and manages to answer it. “Ms. Shaw?”

_“Hey, Harold, how’s that concussion treating you?”_

Humming noncommittally, he covers his eyes with a hand. The screen is too bright.

_“Which month are we in?”_

“October.”

_“How old is Bear in human years?”_

“Five.”

_“What’s my favorite food?”_

Unfair question. Harold takes a guess. “Steak?”

_“That’s good. You can go back to sleep now.”_

The call clicks off. “I seriously doubt that,” he tells the screen. He can’t muster the coordination to return it to the table, so he lets the phone drop to the floor, gently enough that it won’t break.

Harold peers into the gloom, listening carefully. No discernible sounds from the main room. The call would have woken John, but he isn’t getting up. Good.

Bear has rolled over on his back, stretching.

Harold rearranges the pillows so he can sit up against them. He gingerly probes his scalp and grits his teeth when he finds the bump. He’ll take some pain relief for it, if it’s still bothering him when dawn arrives.

His imagination can be cruel to him, Harold knows. In the months after Nathan’s death, they argued in his subconscious, night after night. Sometimes Harold managed to persuade him not to meet the journalist. Sometimes Nathan blamed him for not arriving sooner.

But this…this is nothing. Circuits malfunctioning. An error message thrown out by damaged hardware.

He doesn’t want to kiss Mr. Reese. The thought is absurd. Regardless of whether such a thing would potentially make John happy.

—

Over the following weeks, Harold’s confusion only becomes greater. His head heals, John’s ribs heal. Their partnership does not.

Rather than accepting Harold’s apology regarding his unfortunate instinct, John seems to have taken Harold dropping his hand as the last straw. He’s never in the same room with Harold unless Shaw is also there. The few times they meet, it is strictly business. John doesn’t make jokes or probe Harold’s secrets.

Shamefully, part of him is grateful for the increased distance. Grace remains the love of his life. It feels disloyal to think of anyone but her that way.

Harold is aware that for some, sexuality is a spectrum, not a finite absolute. He simply never considered that could ever apply to him. He was never attracted to other boys, not as a teenager or when he got older. He cannot have advanced through middle age without knowing this about himself. And yet…Grace has been his only lasting relationship. The one person he trusted enough to be intimate. He does not have a wealth of experience in this area.

John does. He is lethal and heroic and tremendously skilled at all things physical. He’s also a patient teacher, an astute listener, respectful of the limitations of others. Harold experienced all this firsthand during their self-defense lessons.

He finds himself revisiting those times, viewing them through a different lens. Having John’s full attention, his powerful presence, dedicated to helping Harold improve. Teaching him how to balance, how to breathe, how to anticipate one’s opponent, not simply on a chess board but in the real world. Forward planning in a split second. Improvisation.

His subconscious continues working on the problem whenever he tries to sleep. It takes him back to the moment that John’s hand rested on his stomach during their last session. Instead of jolting away, Harold covers John’s hand with his own. Presses it more firmly against himself, then guides it lower down.

He fantasizes about John introducing him to new experiences - his first boilermaker, for instance. Once, Harold catches himself thinking about John persuading him to swallow something other than beer.

And all the while he knows that Grace is living in their old house, alone, mourning him. Conflicted is too small a word.

—

One morning in the middle of a Number, John doesn’t show up for work. He has stopped telling Harold where he’s going to be, how he’s spending his free time. Harold could check these things himself, but he’s thoroughly erasing John’s boundaries more than enough in his mind without doing so in reality as well.

Bear remains cheerful, despite seeing John far less than usual, because Ms. Shaw is spoiling him rotten. She’s throwing a tennis ball for him when Finch finally asks her: “Where’s Mr. Reese?”

He must do a passable job of concealing his anxiety because Shaw replies casually: “Staying out with Carter ‘til her date tonight.”

That’s…odd. Of course, it makes sense that Reese would choose to spend time with his other friends, especially the good Detective who could certainly use the additional protection at the moment. But to not even bother to check in for a morning briefing? Mr. Reese has never done that. He knows how Harold worries.

He explains to Shaw what he has found out about the Wellingtons, but a part of his mind is wondering what John and Joss are spending their day doing. Could John be starting to get over his feelings for Harold?

—

That evening, Carter is over at their Number’s apartment, having dinner with him. Reese and Shaw are perched on a rooftop across the street, watching through the windows. Finch is still at the library, keeping tabs on the delicate situation.

Ian is very good at being charming, blending easy self-confidence with a degree of sincerity that gives way to vulnerability. Harold is reminded uncomfortably of Nathan, his ability to flirt with women he never intended to see again. Harold is highly skeptical of him, but not yet ready to decide he must be the perpetrator.

As the discussion in the kitchen continues, Harold’s speakers pick up on a quiet conversation between Shaw and John.

 _“…guard of steel. You two have a thing or something?”_ Harold blinks and turns up the volume. For a second, he thinks Shaw is referring to himself and Reese. Then she adds: _“I clocked you and Zoe right off the bat, but I never thought you and Carter...”_

Harold sits up straighter. His self-pitying thought process from earlier abruptly takes on concrete form. If Shaw also suspects…

 _“We’re just friends!”_ John’s exasperated reply does nothing to allay Harold’s fears. He’s too defensive, too quick to deny it.

Meanwhile, Joss laughs easily at Ian’s jokes. Harold makes himself turn down the feed from John’s earpiece, and puts all his focus on keeping Carter safe.

—

After the case is concluded, John goes home with Zoe. He waits outside the bar until she’s ready to leave. They walk hand-in-hand, smiling and laughing. Harold watches their progress on street cameras, breaking his earlier conviction not to spy on John’s personal time. When they go inside, Harold forces himself to get back to work.

Mr. Reese’s love life seems far too complicated to Harold, even leaving himself out of the equation. If Reese and Carter were to embark on a relationship, would his liaisons with Ms. Morgan stop?

Harold is almost finished disrupting Bruce Wellington’s various sources of income when his phone rings. Dread settles in his gut even before he sees the caller ID.

“Ms. Morgan. Good evening.” His tone is more frosty than polite. Harold checks the time on one of his monitors; he’s been typing furiously for two hours.

She sounds hesitant, not her usual confident self. _“Hi, Harold. Are you safe to talk? This is a personal call.”_

Harold swallows. “I can talk.” He takes his hands off the keyboard and spins his chair, eyes searching for the bottle he knows Ms. Shaw keeps on a shelf somewhere behind him.

 _“I don’t do this,”_ Zoe says. _“It goes against my entire code. But I’m really worried about him. This could…make things awkward between you.”_

Harold could tell her, that ship has sailed.

_“Are you aware of John’s feelings about you?”_

“We’ve discussed it, yes.” Harold’s tone is so flat even he can’t tell how he feels about that.

Zoe pauses. Perhaps that is all she meant to say. When she continues, she sounds offended and terse. _“Well, if you think that’s over, it’s not. Tonight, when we were together, he said your name.”_

His thumb spasms. Harold hangs up.

—

Just over an hour later, Harold walks through a hospital corridor littered with debris and bodies. Naturally, despite everything, his first call is to John.

_“Finch, what’s wrong?”_

“Mr. Reese, we have a problem.” He’s shaking so badly it’s a miracle he can say even that much.

John knows him well, knows what scares him. _“She got out. Stay put, I’ll be there in twenty.”_

Nobody, not even Root’s doctor, who is thoroughly traumatized, can tell Harold where she was heading or what she planned to do next. It takes a while for the staff and other patients to start regaining consciousness. The first one to sit up almost gives Finch a heart attack. He’d thought they were all dead. He helps them to their feet, apologizing for the mess, and walks them back to their beds or offices. An ambulance arrives for the government operative, who Harold is careful to avoid.

John jogs toward him, eyes darting every which way, and takes his elbow in a firm grip. For a moment, Harold is dreaming, drawn into his arms. Then Reese is opening a fire escape, marching Harold away as quickly as possible. 

They emerge into the parking lot. “I brought Harold Farrow’s car…”

“Leave it.” John has commandeered a patrol car. He bundles Harold into the back then gets into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine and turns around, reaching out.

“You’re still wearing those glasses.” He waits for Harold to place them in his hand, swaps them for an identical pair. “Sorry. If she guessed I was tracking them last time…”

The old frames and their phones go out the window. They drive off.

They don’t talk about anything else. Harold’s heart is beating too fast and John’s concentrating too hard on the road. He drives them around for four hours. Hot-wires two other cars. Finally takes them to a rundown apartment that even Harold has never seen before.

“We have to assume she knows all your aliases,” John says, sliding home five deadbolts.

Harold doesn’t tell him that the only thing keeping Root from finding them is the Machine.

It’s four in the morning. They were both up all of last night too. “You should sleep, John.”

John exhales, short and sharp. “I’m not taking my eyes off you.”

He doesn’t. Harold shudders. They sit and wait in the dark, in opposite corners of a sparsely furnished room.

Morning light starts spilling through gaps in taped cardboard before Harold manages to speak.

“You told me you were happy, once. I wish I could make you happy.”

John’s hands grip his own knees very tightly. Harold longs to comfort him.

“I’m still engaged to Grace,” he says.

John takes his time replying. He’s as lost and hollowed out as Harold has ever seen him. “Please. You don’t need to remind me. I know you would rather be with her if you still had the choice. Do me a favor, don’t mention her again.”

Harold regards him very seriously. “Maybe you're the one who needs self defense lessons, Mr. Reese. In protecting your heart from me."

—

They emerge from hiding after twelve hours have passed. They get a new Number when they’re back in the city. Thankfully Bear spent the night with Shaw, because he’s bright-eyed and excited to learn. John explains how he needs to pretend to be sick. He’s only too happy to be the star of an undercover assignment.

As for himself and John, going undercover as a couple in their current state should be beyond laughable, but John doesn’t even blink. Harold reflects, as they sit close in the waiting room, that perhaps he has found a loophole. A way to give John what he wants, without breaking any promises.

—

Another Number follows as soon as they are finished at the vet. They are heading into their third night in a row without sleep. John shows signs of reluctance at leaving Harold in the library while he follows their Number around. He returns as soon as possible, pacing the floors while they wait for Detective Fusco to get ears on Mrs. Watkins’ interrogation.

Harold is calm. He’s not entirely sure how. It’s not the training John gave him. It’s not even Bear’s presence, sitting upright and alert at Harold’s side, having picked up on John’s restless mood. He suspects that, whatever Root is planning to do with her newfound freedom, it won’t involve Harold.

—

An interesting night and day follows, as they immerse themselves fully in the case. Watkins’ status as victim or perpetrator is constantly in doubt.

In addition, Carter’s new trainee partner witnesses her in conversation with Mr. Reese and comments upon it. Harold overhears Laskey congratulate her for moving on from Beecher and seeing someone new. The sheer depth of indignation in Carter’s reply can only be genuine, before she accepts the plausible excuse offered, attempting to safeguard her career from renewed suspicion about any involvement with the Man in the Suit. Harold is concerned by Laskey’s ongoing tactic of casual questioning, but selfishly, enormously relieved for himself. He and Ms. Shaw were both mistaken about anything developing between Reese and Carter. Zoe’s immensely private revelation has been echoing through his head, but with this reconfirmation from Carter’s side of things, Harold can finally put his fears to rest.

Even so, he makes a mental note to discuss with John, HR’s latest subtle move against their friend.

—

Unfortunately, the next opportunity they have for conversation, Harold is too angry to remember to discuss HR.

_“I gave her a weapon.”_

“You what?!” Bad enough that this woman is free, without also being equipped to kill her husband by a member of this team.

 _“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”_ Reese sounds totally unapologetic.

Finch recalls Reese yelling at him that first time they unwittingly saved Elias. Yet now John doesn’t consider putting a gun in a vengeful Number’s hand worthy of remorse? John’s instincts had told him Vanessa was guilty when they first listened to her interrogation. Why would he be so careless as to disregard them to that extent? Even while she appeared to be innocent?

“Explain yourself,” Harold snaps, unable to moderate his tone given the extent of his exasperation.

_“She was afraid Jeremy would come after her. I wanted her to feel safe.”_

Harold’s eyes close. Jessica again. This ongoing blindspot of John’s can be a liability.

Shutting his eyes reminds Harold how tired he is, of how neither of them have slept in days. Mr. Reese has been running around far more than he. Exhaustion does not usually affect his judgment, but perhaps John is allowed this mistake. Especially with Root’s whereabouts still unknown.

“We find Jeremy, we find her.”

—

Harold follows John’s progress back to the couple’s yacht. But when John steps out onto the water, he loses the signal. For several crucial minutes, Harold does not know what is happening. 

The moment he steps back onto land, Harold calls him again. “Mr. Reese, how's Ms. Watkins?”

Reese’s response is frustratingly cryptic. _“Don't know. But you might want to call the Coast Guard.”_ Harold’s worry exponentially multiplies. It’s not like John to be so indifferent about the outcome of a case.

He quickly tunes into the correct radio frequency. Fifteen minutes later, the Coast Guard reports they’ve found two deceased on the boat.

Harold practically storms out of the library, making his way to John’s loft with Bear jogging along at his side. He raps sharply on the door. John’s lazy reply just about reaches him: “It’s open.”

Reese is lounging in his black leather recliner, shirt unbuttoned, feet up. Harold can’t believe him. Their Number is dead.

“What the hell happened? You were supposed to stop them, not help them kill each other!”

He shrugs. “Decided it wasn’t worth my intervention.”

Harold gapes at him, appalled. “You _decided_?”

“We’re vigilantes, remember. That mock trial you held earlier. You were judge, Carter played jury, which leaves me for executioner.”

There’s a bottle on the floor by John’s seat.

“We save lives, Mr. Reese. Regardless of whether they deserve it. How could you have lost sight of that? Do you no longer care for this job?”

Reese tips his head back. Harold watches his throat contract. He speaks to the ceiling. “Maybe I don’t. If I can’t be with you.”

Harold’s body tenses so hard that his neck burns. How _dare_ John put that on him?

“Don’t bother coming into work tomorrow. Or the day after. Get some sleep, tip that bottle away.” He turns his back on John. Bear whines.

Behind him, John gets to his feet. “You didn’t see them, Harold. Sometimes marriages go bad.”

Harold’s lenses start to blur. “We’re not married.”

John chuckles bitterly. “No, only our covers are.”

Unlike his pretense at the vet, Bear’s sadness as they exit the building is entirely real.

—

“You planning on firing him?” Shaw asks the following morning, when Harold coolly informs her that Mr. Reese will be sitting out the next few Numbers.

“No!” Harold retorts, surprised by the vehemence of his own reaction. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “No offense, Ms. Shaw, but when in his right mind, he possesses more social skills than the two of us combined. We need him.”

“So if I kill some people because it’s quicker you won’t fire me either? Good to know.”

He’s about to launch into a lecture before it registers that she’s teasing him. He settles for a warning glare.

They spend the day investigating a zoo employee who it turns out has been secreting stashes of drugs in various enclosures in the course of his maintenance work, rather than selling them as he’d promised to do. Needless to say Ms. Shaw is not too enthused at the prospect of digging through camel dung and walks off the job. Harold cannot exactly blame her. She does unnecessarily terrify some small children by telling them the lions wouldn’t be fed today. All in all, they don’t enjoy working together very much. Lionel appreciates being drafted in to finish the task even less.

—

Work on their next Number involves Shaw going undercover as an EMT. It’s closer to her skillset, in theory, but she still puts in the minimum of effort.

 _“You paid me to save him, not listen to him talk.”_ She comments, when Harold suggests she work on her bedside manner.

“I was thinking you might stop by, and we could discuss it over a nice cup of tea.” He has already set the table, boredom and anxiety prompting him to break out the best china, in the hopes of finding comfort in civility.

 _“Well, as fun as that sounds, Finch, I'll pass.”_ Her level of sarcasm is almost hurtful.

Harold resigns himself to spending the evening alone and picks up a biscuit. Beside him, Bear whines, and Harold hesitates momentarily before letting him eat it. At least Bear still wants to spend time with him. They share the plate of biscuits until Bear needs to drink from his water bowl.

Unable to resist checking up on John any longer, Harold locates his GPS on the map. He’s close to the river. Harold experiences a brief flash of panic, then zooms out. Carter’s phone is nearby, heading toward John. Harold’s discontent at their meeting in secret is outweighed by his relief that they’re both safe.

Moments later, Bear is back, setting his chin on Harold’s knee. Harold pets him absently, unable to tear himself from the monitor, then abruptly closes the program. He’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t want to deal with any of it.

“Do you think I’ve lost him?” He asks Bear’s sweet face. He’d hoped he could hang onto John’s friendship.

Harold can’t even maintain his anger. His trust in John ought to be utterly destroyed. He effectively punished Harold for not returning his feelings by letting a Number die. Instead he finds himself defending John, excusing his behavior. Refusing to fire him, when - Shaw is right - had it been anyone else, he certainly would have.

“It’s only been two days. I miss him.”

Bear sniffles in agreement and flops down on his bed.

The odd dreams and fantasies following Harold’s concussion have been carefully buried. Harold takes his guilty sense that maybe the Numbers do matter less if John isn’t here to investigate them, and stifles that too.

Finally he takes the memory of how John looked the other night, reclining with his long legs crossed, head tipped back, strikingly beautiful even in pain. Pain that Harold caused. The image gets thrown into a deep dark corner of Harold’s mind.

The digital fragments of his one remaining photo with Grace are easy to piece together on the screen. Perfect past replacing complex present.

—

When he wakes, the first thing Harold notices is that John has left a voicemail. _“I’ve sobered up. Drank a few beers with Carter last night, but I’m done now, I swear. We went over her case against HR. She’s staying focused, and I need to be, too. I want to stop by the library later. Unless you say no, I’ll assume that’s okay. Sleep well. Don’t hate me.”_

“I don’t hate you,” Harold murmurs to his phone, voice thin with sleep.

The timestamp on the message is two hours old. Harold deletes it, partly out of cautious habit and partly to prevent himself replaying it multiple times. It’s impossibly good to hear his voice.

It’s not quite an apology, but then Harold doesn’t strictly need one. If John is ready to put the incident behind him, so will Harold.

As he pushes himself upright, Harold comes to terms with the aftermath of falling asleep at the desk again, then realizes that John could potentially be here any minute. He limps into the back and quickly gets washed and changed. Harold manages not to cut himself shaving and is just rinsing the hair gel off his fingers when the echoes reach him of footsteps on the stairs. Part of Harold wants to rush out to meet him. He restrains himself.

He tucks yesterday’s suit neatly away in a dry-cleaning bag and exits the washroom. John’s stride is slow and measured. “Ah, Mr. Reese. Good morning.”

John stops in his tracks. They stand a respectable distance apart, looking vaguely over one another’s shoulders.

“Hi, Harold.”

“Are you ready to work?”

“I am.” John holds out a slip of paper with handwritten letters on. He obviously passed a payphone on his way in.

“You will let Ms. Shaw take point on this one. Provide assistance, backup, whatever she needs. You will not be involved in any decision-making as to the fate of the Number. Is that clear?” He turns the moment he finishes speaking.

“Crystal. But Harold…Please just let me say I’m sorry.”

Harold forces a smile, trying to reassure him. “Apology accepted. Now go decode that.” He gestures to the paper John’s holding.

John obeys. Harold calls Shaw to let her know she’s needed.

—

It transpires that the Number is a young girl. After the recent lion incident, and knowing what a natural John is with children, Harold feels the need to reverse his earlier orders.

“Look, it won't do to save this little girl's life only to have her scared to death by Ms. Shaw. Perhaps it would be best if we kept her at arm's length from Ms. Zhirova.”

Shaw cuts in on what was meant to be a private call between Finch and Reese. _“Fine with me, I hate kids. What, Finch? You think I didn't bug your office?”_

—

Despite giving him a minor fit with that revelation, Shaw does prove Harold wrong. She gains Genrika’s trust in her own way. They bond over their similar childhood histories. By the time they drop her off at her new school, they have become firm friends. Harold meets her outside the gate, respectfully looking away while Shaw blinks the tears from her eyes. They walk together, sharing Bear between them.

“About that bug in my library.”

“Haven’t found it yet, have you.” Harold has to respect her skills. He has swept under the desk and all the sets of drawers four times. He even removed all the books from the caged shelves. Her playful teasing is starting to remind him of Nathan, butting up against his eternal paranoia, trying to persuade him to venture out of his shell. She’s not polite, but she doesn’t mean him real harm.

But by the look in her eye, she has the power to embarrass him. Time for some damage control. “Whatever you might have heard…”

Shaw steers them toward a nearby bench and sits down. “You miss him, huh? The only way you’re gonna lose him is if you carry on the way you are.”

Harold lapses into uncomfortable silence.

Shaw pats her legs. Bear woofs happily and shoves his head against her, enjoying her attention. Harold’s still standing there holding the leash, but it’s clear Bear is not only Harold’s dog anymore.

Shaw looks up at him, squinting against the slanting, setting sun. “He cares about you. He outright told me, the night I broke him out of custody. I played him a recording of the call you made, and he still talked about you with misty eyes.” She shudders. “That shit’s not going away. But if you keep shutting him out, you can understand how he might start to resent you.”

Harold breathes in deep, lets it out gradually. He sits down on the bench, staring at his hands folded in his lap, knuckles going white. He feels very exposed.

Shaw nudges him companionably. “Hey. I don’t get lonely. But I gather it sucks.”

In her uniquely awkward way, she’s trying to cheer him up.

Harold lifts his head and manages a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

She nods and faces forward, changing the subject. “So does this constructive criticism thing go both ways?”

Harold can’t exactly refuse. He regrets now, giving her such a hard time about her manners. “If you like.”

“I know you never went to handler school. But calling one asset and asking them to manage or subvert another? Bad idea.”

Harold nods, accepting this. “Especially given both your histories.” Reese and Stanton, Shaw and Cole…he doesn’t want to be anything like their former employers, or give them any cause not to trust each other, or him.

“Take good care of your shoulder,” he reminds Shaw, as he gets to his feet, relinquishing Bear to her for the night.

“Bug’s in the light fitting,” she responds in kind.

—

John goes up the ladder, Harold holds it steady for him.

“Do you see it?”

“Yeah. Clever, Shaw.” Reese peels off the tape and plucks the bug out of the dome, passing it down to Harold, who drops it on the floor and crushes it underfoot.

Reese descends the rungs. When he reaches the floor and turns, he’s almost standing in Harold’s arms. The light shade sways on its chain above them, making dramatically shifting, curved patterns out of John’s eye sockets and cheekbones. Harold watches, forgets to move his hands from the sides of the ladder.

John looks awkward. “Um.”

He abruptly comes to his senses and drops his hands away, letting John escape. Then he starts wheeling the ladder back to its usual location. Harold’s cheeks are burning. He hates this. Things will never be normal between them. Never go back to the way they were.

But he can count on Mr. Reese to be braver than he.

“Have you eaten?” John asks, putting on his own jacket.

Harold confirms that he hasn’t.

“Then, apology dinner?” He looks half convinced that Harold will say no.

“Alright. Your choice of establishment.”

—

They wander in the evening light awhile, glancing over menus outside. The fall sunshine is pleasant and the streets seem less frenetic than usual. It’s almost a luxury to be able to take their time deciding. Walk up an appetite.

John isn’t talkative but he doesn’t appear preoccupied either. Harold lets him be as quiet as he likes, enjoying his calming presence. Eventually they settle on a burger joint, which is not too dimly lit, and happens to be the right level of busy.

John automatically slides out Harold’s chair for him before sitting down himself. Harold finds himself tempted to comment on this gesture, but refrains. John’s typical consideration does not make this a date. It’s odd that such a thing occurs to Harold. He’s still over-thinking far too much.

When they’ve ordered, Harold explains happily his arrangements for Genrika’s schooling, and possible future measures to help her achieve the career path she aspires to. From there, the conversation naturally shifts to Shaw. After the food arrives, Reese has relaxed enough to admit something that’s bothering him.

“I hate to bring this up, but with Root out there again…it might be time for you to continue defense lessons?”

Harold looks up from his plate with a skeptical eyebrow raised, but John continues. “Now you and Shaw are getting along better, I thought maybe you could ask her for techniques. I know you won’t want me teaching you again. But I’d feel better knowing you’re still getting some practice.”

Considering his response, Harold speaks more slowly than John. “To be honest, I haven’t felt the need for it, of late. If someone approaches me threateningly, I have Bear to warn them off.”

John looks unconvinced. “You had Bear when you first asked me. You’re also the one who said we shouldn’t get complacent.”

Harold hadn’t quite understood how to use Bear to his advantage back then, that’s the difference. But because this seems to mean a lot to John, Harold says: “I’ll consider it.”

John nods gratefully, but grows more hesitant and awkward. “Finch, can I ask…? You seem… better than last year. About…all of this.” John lifts his hand and rotates a finger, apparently gesturing to the room, rather than himself.

It takes Harold a moment to comprehend what he’s referring to, but when he does, he ducks his head back down with slight embarrassment. “Yes, I’m comfortable being in public. Even without knowing her exact whereabouts.”

“You’re not just hiding it from me?”

There’s no sweat on Harold’s forehead, no dread in his stomach. No urge to run, or change his name a thousand times. “I’m not. I couldn’t.”

“Good. Okay.” And those, perhaps, are the ‘misty eyes’ Ms. Shaw referred to earlier. It’s quite humbling, having someone to worry over him, his physical and mental wellbeing, so much. Seeing this, Harold can believe that John is in love with him. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Are _you_ alright?” Harold wonders whether to reach over and squeeze John’s hand, apologize, thank him for venturing far beyond loyalty, even knowing all Harold has done to effectively ruin John’s life. Ordos, Jessica, Kara, Zoe. Harold might not be anxious, but he is sad.

“Yeah.” John sighs heavily. “I will be.”

It’s not until they’re walking back, nearing the entrance to the building which contains the Baxter Street loft, that John starts apologizing again. “About the Watkins. Nothing like that’ll happen again. I won’t let my feelings interfere with the mission."

"You were under a lot of strain. You made a mistake. I've forgiven you."

John’s mouth twists down. Harold’s forgiveness may not be enough. "It wasn't a mistake. I made a conscious choice. I've made a lot of bad choices in my life. I was angry, sure, but that's no excuse. This was an obvious reminder that I'm not -" He breaks off, abruptly. A sudden self-directed loathing in his eyes.

"Not what?" Harold tries, quietly.

At this point, the private car which Harold had earlier ordered to take him home pulls up alongside them. It requires him to take his eyes off John for that crucial moment. But he does have to check that Root isn’t driving, or lurking in the back. He may not be jumping at shadows, but he won’t put John through the ordeal of having to track him down again.

The driver’s familiarity established, he rejoins John at the door of the building, which he’s holding open against his back.

"Mr. Reese. How was that sentence going to end?"

He shrugs. "I'm not good enough for you. Or anyone.” A slight, forced smile. “Goodnight, Harold."

He disappears inside, heading for the elevators. Harold stares after him, stunned, his heart hurting for this terribly sad man who is his best friend.

"Don't say that," Harold pleads, under his breath.

—

He changes his destination almost as soon as he gets in the car. Sends Ms. Morgan a text. Her reply is almost instantaneous - there’s a business meeting in her diary, but she’s been hoping for a last-minute excuse to cancel it.

Harold’s teeth graze the end of his thumb as he tries to formulate what he intends to say to her.

He can’t allow John - such an exceptional man - to give up on himself and his future happiness.

When Zoe opens the door she’s pinning her hair up at the back of her head with a large claw clip, messy strands framing her face. Harold is momentarily wrong-footed, used to seeing her pristine and professional, not casual and in sleepwear.

“I’m sorry to drop in at short notice. Are you well?”

She stretches as she lets him through the door, scratching between her shoulder blades. “Long day. How was yours?”

“Very productive, thank you. We saved a young girl from the Russian mob and thwarted another of HR’s plans.”

“Congratulations. That sounds fun. Would you like something to drink?”

“Please.” Smiling gratefully when she holds up a bottle of bourbon and two glasses, he shrugs cautiously out of his coat, then folds it over one arm. He’s holding it like a shield. There’s a very good chance that he should not have come here.

“Your meeting, was it important?” He asks, as she hands him his glass.

“Yeah, kinda. High profile client. Spoiled brat. Needs my help but rejects all of my solutions. I’m keen to see how he likes it when I waste _his_ time.” Zoe settles on her couch, tucking both legs beneath her, smiling to herself as she takes a sip.

Harold’s eyes go wide with concern. “That sounds serious. Can we help?” He lowers himself into a chair almost opposite her.

She shakes her head, snorting slightly. “It’s fine. I’m handling it.”

“Well, you can always call…”

Zoe waves him off. “Yeah, I know.”

Somewhat perplexed by her easy dismissal, Harold goes quiet. Part of him wants to press the issue. A larger part really wants to go home. He’s working very hard to avoid glancing at the enormous, neatly made bed on the far side of the room. He’s never normally one to be intimidated by furniture, but…eleven days ago, he watched John enter the building with Zoe, and he knows what happened after that.

His studious avoidance doesn’t work. Zoe twists around in her seat to look at it, with a sigh. “You’re here about John.”

“Yes, I…this is awkward.” Harold fidgets with his coat, which is scrunched up in his lap. If she’d offered to take it, he probably would have clung to it.

She faces him again. Her tone is reassuring, but Harold still senses an undercurrent of disapproval. “Well, it’s brave of you to come here. Especially considering you hung up the last time we talked.”

He grimaces, managing to meet her gaze. “Have I apologized for that? It was exceedingly bad manners.”

“I dropped a bombshell. It happens. Would you prefer I hadn’t told you?”

“Perhaps. Except…no. I probably needed to hear it.” Admitting even that much makes Harold incredibly thirsty. He takes a shaky swig, throat scorching with the aftertaste.

“Doesn’t feel great, though. For either of us.”

“No. I am sorry for the position that put you in.”

A wicked grin steals onto Zoe’s face. “Oh, I liked the position, while it lasted.”

Harold almost drops his drink in his haste to hide his burning face and also plug his ears. “ _Not_ what I intended,” he groans, while she smirks at him.

She gives him enough time to recover before she leans forward. “You’ve something to ask me?”

Harold’s thumbs squeak on the glass, he’s gripping it so tightly. “I do. I know this is …Is there any way that you could...pretend to be his partner. Not for a case, just to bolster his spirits. You do genuinely care about John, as a friend. You look stunning together.” She’s shaking her head. Harold’s voice grows more earnest, losing its hesitancy as desperation rises. “What would be the harm? You’re both busy people, you wouldn’t see him any more often than you do now, but he wouldn’t feel there’s something wrong with him, something missing from his life.”

Zoe folds her arms. “I don’t date. I don’t experience romantic feelings for people, and even if I did, John doesn’t want that from me. He wants that from you. It would be no use lying to him.”

“Then…” Frustrated, Harold gestures with an open hand, encompassing her toned legs and tanned shoulders, ”distract him, until he’s better.”

“And by _better_ you really mean _over you_.” There’s a clear current of bitterness and anger in her voice.

Harold stares at her. He can’t deny it.

She stands abruptly, circling her couch to lean her elbows on the back of it. When she speaks again, she’s quiet and firm. “My answer’s no, Harold. To either suggestion.”

Harold leaves his whiskey on a side table and takes his phone from his pocket, starting to make his way toward the door. “All right. Then I’ll…message Maxine Angelis on his behalf again. She already guessed about his job - he won’t have to keep secrets from her either.” He’s thinking aloud to himself, not really talking to Zoe anymore.

But she plucks at his sleeve, urgently takes the phone from his hands. “Oh god, don’t. She got married last month. It was in the paper.”

She quickly swipes at the screen, opening a browser. Then she hands it back to him, so he can see the online copy of New York marriage announcements.

Harold swallows down his indignation. She is, unfortunately, right. “I see. Thank you, I missed that.”

Zoe slightly squeezes his upper arms. She’s trying to get him to look her in the eye, but Harold can’t. “There’s also no guarantee that he will get over this any time soon, regardless of any distractions. I’ve never been in unrequited love, so I don’t know what John’s going through. Do you?”

Harold doesn’t. He’s long been exceedingly resistant to allowing his emotions to run away with him. And with Grace it was so clear and simple. From almost the moment he said hello, he never doubted that their attachment was mutual. He was so fortunate. And John has been so consistently unlucky, largely due to Harold’s choices with the Machine.

“I made that call so that you would think about this.” Zoe pats his chest, nails tapping over his heart. “Why are you so invested in making sure his love life works out? He’s a grown man, he can get his own dates.”

“I don’t doubt that, but he hasn’t the inclination. I have tried to distance myself from this. From him. But now it’s affecting his work and I would vastly prefer it if I didn’t have to watch him suffer.”

“Exactly, you think interfering is in his best interests. Stop that. I’m sorry to be so harsh, but you’re making things impossible for him. If you can’t work this out, you need to set him free.”

—

Fifteen hours later, it starts to become painfully apparent that Harold should have been worrying less about John and more about tracking Root. Bear has been returned to the library, but Ms. Shaw is missing. If she were angry with him, that might explain why his calls were being ignored, but they parted on good terms.

He sends John to search for clues at Shaw’s apartment, and arranges the start of a new job for himself, staying close to their Number, Timothy Sloan.

Mr. Reese checks in frequently, updating him on his progress, and requesting more than once to return to Harold’s side. Things could almost seem back to normal between them, if it weren’t for Harold’s twisting guilt regarding the previous night. Keep John close, or send him away? Harold cannot decide which is least cruel. Finding Shaw is a matter of urgency, however. He insists that Reese stay on her trail.

Sometimes John is right to ignore Harold’s orders and trust his instincts. He arrives just in time to rescue them from Vigilance’s rigged storage unit.

The revelation that - after the initial kidnapping - Shaw is choosing to assist Root with her mysterious plans, causes a momentary spike in Harold’s paranoia. Perhaps he has been unwise to develop a closer friendship with the younger operative. Then he realizes…Ms. Shaw is simply copying what Harold did, in the hours before the Machine’s reboot. Allow Root to think she has her way, then subvert at an opportune moment. His theory proves correct when Shaw - a little too gleefully - returns an unconscious Root to the library and drops her into a chair. Her report is elaborate and detailed - government blacksites included - and reveals they have Root to thank for Greenfield’s escape from Vigilance. Root, acting on the Machine’s instructions. Not for revenge, or money, or power. For the Numbers.

But Shaw also mentioned that Root is following her new orders blindly, without questioning them at all. He can understand why the Machine might find it useful to have direct access to a human acolyte, but he’s highly uncomfortable with it having that kind of freedom. Especially when said individual is as disturbed and, yes, fragile, as Root.

So he separates them, for their own good. Closing the padlock on the gate feels like a victory. Finally he is able to make a decision on something, which he knows is right.

—

Separation for the sake of ensuring sanity - is that best? If he’s willing to protect Root from the Machine, he ought to protect John from himself. Except, of course, that this isn’t the same thing at all. The Machine and Root won’t die if kept apart. They’ll be a little bored and resentful, true, but Root can occupy her mind with books for a time, instead of the whims of an artificial intelligence which is rapidly rewriting its own code.

If he sends John away for good, Harold might well perish in a fire.

And John will…he doesn’t want to know what John would do.

The next morning Harold heads to the park, after delivering Root’s breakfast. He leaves Bear on guard in the library, in case she decides to test the ankle bracelet again. Shaw did imply that Root professes to enjoy being electrocuted, so Harold doesn’t consider it too severe a measure.

With Root under lock and key, he feels safe enough to go sneak a glimpse at Grace. It’s been a while. Zoe urging him to consider what’s in his heart has made seeing Grace a priority.

There’s no Number yet today. Harold is just wondering whether the Machine is punishing him ( _”You’re only gonna make her angry,”_ Root had said), when he receives a text.

_180_

“Is that a partial Number?” He slows his walk, glancing subtly in the windows of houses close by. He can’t see anyone following him. He gazes at his phone for a long moment, puzzled, then continues on his way.

Another insistent buzzing. _GO BACK._

“To the library?” But it’s too late. Grace’s house is visible through the trees, the front door standing open. Harold lurches forward a few paces, mind immediately jumping to worst case scenarios. A break-in. Root hired somebody before finding Shaw.

Except…Grace steps outside a second later, smiling, uninjured. Carrying her keys, handbag and portfolio. She’s laughing, there’s someone talking to her inside. Harold can’t see who, until Grace takes their arm and pulls them toward her, into the doorway.

It’s Elena. Grace’s best friend. Long dark hair in tight curls, a few extra lines on her face than when Harold saw her last. She’s wearing an apron and slippers. A full-length, brightly-patterned dress which drifts in the breeze. Her hands glide around Grace’s waist as Grace kisses her sweetly. Then she turns and skips down the steps, waving on the last. When she’s through the gate, Elena steps back inside, the door closing. Grace continues on her way to work.

Harold can hardly breathe. He staggers to a bench, wishing Bear were with him. Tries to remind his lungs to function. He didn’t lie to John the other night - he hasn’t had a panic attack in many months.

Harold looks down at his phone. Without conscious thought, his fingers have already swiped to John’s number. John would distract him from the phantom weight on his chest, make him laugh.

He can’t call. John made it perfectly clear, the night Root broke out of hospital. He doesn’t want to talk about Grace.

His phone goes back in a pocket. Harold grips the bench with both hands, trying to ground himself. Dragging in a slow breath is painful. Too shallow. His throat refuses. He has more success with short, quick breaths through his nose. But that only escalates the sense of being out of control. His head is light, eyes watering.

A portly black man on a bench nearby tips out his breakfast pastry from a paper bag and approaches. His daughters are playing with a bucket not far away, filling it with water from the fountain. “Hey, man, you okay? Here, take this.”

Harold accepts the bag gratefully and holds up a hand to thank him, unable to speak. Harold shuts his eyes and concentrates on filling the bag with air, then crumpling it again. He’s slow and halting, then somehow the worst of the tightness in his lungs gives way, and Harold can breathe more naturally. From there, he knows it’s just a matter of de-escalation.

The man hovers for a few moments, unsure if he should do something more to help. Harold lowers the bag after a few more minutes, manages to tell him he’s very kind. He nods and heads back to his children. Harold holds onto the scrunched-up paper just in case.

He does need to get away from here. He can’t be drawing attention to himself, practically in front of Grace’s house. Elena might glance out of a window and recognize him.

The thought sends another jolt of fear through him, enough to get Harold on his feet and walking, in the direction of a bolt-hole he hasn’t used in years. John cannot come looking and find Harold in this state. He’s glad that track-able pair of glasses got thrown away.

When he thinks he can trust his voice, Harold makes sure he goes straight to voice-mail and leaves Shaw a message, informing her he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day, and a reminder that their guest will require an evening meal. He hopes they will assume he’s maintaining his aliases.

In reality the only thing he’s maintaining is his composure, while his heart feels as though it has fallen through the soles of his shoes.

He has to ask the man behind the front desk for a key-card, and it’s fortunate (although not ideal in terms of security) that he first addresses Harold as Mr. Osprey, because Harold might not have been able to give the correct name if asked.

Standing in the elevator, Harold reflects sadly that ospreys mate for life.

Once inside the penthouse, Harold closes the door securely and braces himself against the wall with his forearm, beginning to sniffle.

He’s thinking about…the first few days after he left her. He was full of pain due to his body and rage about Nathan, and the blank despair of knowing he could never see Grace again, talk to her, hold her…if he wanted her to keep her peaceful life.

Back then, somehow, it had been…less lonely, to think that she was missing him too.

This feels like losing her all over again.

Harold knows it’s beyond capricious of him to be resentful of her happiness. This is why he left, so that she could be happy, not dragged into his past, another collateral casualty of his mistakes. Even so, he has spent almost every day since, wishing he could have stayed.

And she never moved. In some sense, their life together had been preserved in that house, just waiting for him to return from a (very extended) business trip.

“Sentimental old fool,” Harold mutters to himself, pushing away from the wall. He loosens his tie and sinks onto the bed, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, before letting the frames slide off. This action briefly dries the tears, before more emerge to take their place.

Nathan had never met Grace. Harold had wanted it that way, until the day he decided to propose, and changed his mind. If everything had gone to plan, if they’d hired those expensive lawyers, perhaps he would have.

What was it they drank to? ‘ _No more lies._ ’ Harold snorts at how that one turned out. He retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his nose, then fidgets with the fabric, turning it around and around in his hands.

He did promise never to lie to John, at least. Hasn’t kept it perfectly, but close.

The realization sneaks up on him slowly, in examining his conscience. All of John’s suffering these past few months…might have been avoided. Harold’s head sinks down, exhausted.

Even though it’s only…09:40, he gets undressed and crawls into bed, curling into a ball. It’s what people do, yes? When they’re heartbroken. Not him. But he’s mourning his one shot at a normal life. This is normal.

_‘You ever crave a more conventional life, Finch?’_

_‘If by "conventional" you mean a life without the Numbers, it has crossed my mind.’_

Harold screws his eyes shut at the memory, furthering dampening the pillow.

Somehow he falls into a shallow, miserable doze. A comforting weight settles behind him, on top of the covers, radiating calm and forgiveness. Curving against him like a shield. There’s a small gray dog lying by his feet. His fiancee leans down and kisses his forehead. Harold reaches out to touch her face, but she’s already drifting away. "Grace," he sighs. His own voice wakes him. He rolls onto his back. He's alone in the bed.

Harold sits up. He needs to do something. Anything.

If memory serves…it should still be here. He goes to the built-in closet space next to the television, kneels down, slides out a horizontal wood panel beneath the wire shoe rack. Takes out an old spare laptop, wrapped in its original packaging so it hasn’t gathered dust. It’ll take him twenty minutes to update all the security measures on it. An easy distraction. Replacing the wood panel and returning to bed, he notices for the first time how chilled the room is. He can’t summon the energy to do anything about that now, though. He doesn’t expect to stay here again tomorrow.

It’s warm enough inside the bed anyway. He cracks open the laptop and glances into the camera as it powers up. “You tried to warn me. Thank you for that.”

The Machine offers no response, but he didn’t expect one.

Once the necessary masks and reroutes are in place, it becomes a case of deciding how to spend his time. He makes a half-hearted attempt at busywork, skim-reading Wren’s business emails, checking on Starling’s pending patents. But it isn’t absorbing enough. He needs to truly forget, for a little while. Convincing his brain to shut down is never easy. Ordinarily he might read, but there are no books here. NASA’s livestream from the ISS absorbs him for a good fifteen minutes, before viewers in the chatroom start discussing buying flowers for their loved ones, and Harold hastily closes the tab, memories bubbling up.

Gaming might be a safer choice. Checking his favorite surviving online Space Invaders port reveals that someone has finally overtaken his high score. Reclaiming that top spot takes him back to waiting for code to compile, Nathan fondly mocking his obsession, while watching Harold play instead of studying.

Unfortunately gaming has almost always devolved into hacking, for Harold. His frustration with the ease of things sets him hunting for greater challenges. Four major banks in fourteen minutes is his record, not that he ever takes any funds for himself. Merely shuffles things around until someone cares to notice. He starts a stopwatch and gets typing.

Eight and a half minutes later, Harold has veered completely off task. All attempts at distraction have backfired. He’s looking at Grace’s bank account.

He’s checked in on her finances several times over the years, wanting to ensure she remains comfortable. One of the many ways he takes care of her, without her ever knowing.

Within a few minutes he has gleaned more about her life now than he could have discovered by standing on her doorstep.

Flowers, jewelery, clothing. Other romantic gifts on Grace’s statements, starting around the same time that Harold first asked John for defense lessons. Even if he had followed Lou Mitchell’s advice and gone to her, he would have been too late.

More recently, there are some bigger purchases.

She’s hired a realtor to give a valuation on the house.

A pair of one-way plane and train tickets, to Vernazza, Italy.

Her email correspondence confirms it. They’re moving to be nearer Elena’s relatives. Five weeks from now.

—

The next day, Harold goes to therapy.

It’s fake, of course. Hayden Price is a conman masquerading as a hypnotherapist.

He asks Harold to select an image from a tablet to focus on. The photograph that makes Harold pause is a flock of birds scattering in flight from an unseen threat. Definitely not a relaxing thought. But it’s just as well that the treatment is useless. John is in his earpiece, listening to every word, a fly on the wall while Harold pretends to reveal intimate details about his childhood.

Per his request, he doesn’t tell John about Grace.

Three days later, they are at the safehouse, laptop between them on the table. They’re listening in on a call between the number and his girlfriend Natalie.

_“I’m sorry. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I love you.”_

_“Look, Hayden, I love you. But I deserve the truth, or else I'm done.”_

There’s something off about Reese’s stance as he leans over, fingers brushing the opposite edge of the laptop Harold’s holding. He’s been weirdly agitated since he showed up here an hour ago.

_“I'll tell you everything. Stop loving me or even hate me, but please hear me out.”_

Harold’s gaze lifts to meet John’s. Perhaps there’s something in these words that applies to their situation, too. John’s face would be a blank mask to anyone else, but Harold knows better. He detects fear, anger and sadness. They wait for Natalie’s response.

 _“I’ll be there.”_ The call ends.

Reese pushes the lid closed the second it does.

Harold frowns at this. “You have a location. Go find him, Mr. Reese.”

He perches on the table. His voice has gone the kind of soft which signals danger. “I will. You and I need to talk first.”

Harold nervously licks his lips. “Is this really the time?”

Reese taps the laptop with his fingernails. It makes an unpleasant clacking sound. “I step out to let them have their lover’s spat and my job’s on the line again?”

“What? I don’t blame you for losing Hayden.”

“Why not? He could have been killed.” Ah. His conscience is still plaguing him.

“I really did forgive you for the Watkins’ fate, John. Hayden gave you the slip. I don’t expect you to be infallible. Why on earth would you think I’m about to fire you?”

John folds his arms, ducking his head. “I spoke to Zoe. She said you’re thinking of letting me go.”

Harold is profoundly alarmed. His hand squeezes John’s wrist without him consciously deciding to do so.

“…You’ve misunderstood. Is that all she told you?”

“Why, was there something else?” John is relieved and suspicious simultaneously.

 _I’ll tell you everything._ Harold swallows past a sudden tightness in his throat. It’s vitally important that he speak, and they don’t have much time. “I went to see Zoe because I was concerned that…your continued feelings for me were making your life unbearable.” John stiffens, the beginnings of protest stirring, and Harold gets to his feet. “She _advised_ me that yes, keeping you by my side, day after day, would not make things easier for you. But I did _not_ decide to break up our partnership. I would miss you too much.”

His voice falters. John’s wrist slowly turns in his grip, little finger catching Harold’s arm. He no longer looks so conflicted or desperate. Harold could stop there, but a lie of omission is still a lie. Harold made him a promise, and John does deserve the truth. Even though he expressly forbade Harold from mentioning Grace again.

“There’s more. I recently received some news.” He’s had a few more days to process, but it remains difficult to say out loud.

John’s mind has jumped ahead, to the wrong conclusion. “Jesus, Finch, you’re not sick?” His eyes fill with concern.

“No, no, I’m well, thank you. It’s…Grace. She’s seeing someone else.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, John slides off the table, his wrist falling out of Harold’s loosened grip. He puts some distance between them, standing tall with his back to him. Then he rounds on Harold with a series of questions.

“Well, who is he? Do you trust him? Have you been to see her? Does she know you’re alive? Would she still make that decision if she knew?”

“Her name is Elena Da Rosa. She’s creative director on the Boroughs magazine. She went out with us more than once when Grace and I were dating. They’ve worked together since before we met. So yes, I trust her. I have no doubt they will be happy.” That last comes out a little insincere, when a part of Harold still wants to be the one to make Grace happy. But he believes it, logically. His heart just needs a little time to catch up. “As for your other questions…no, and I don’t intend to. They’re selling the house and relocating to Italy. They’re building a new life together, John. I would never jeopardize that.”

As Harold finishes explaining, John’s holding up a hand, palm facing out. He’s walking away, toward the small flight of steps that lead out of the apartment. Why is he walking away?

Slightly ducking down, Reese flicks subtly at his earpiece. Oh. Yes, they’re supposed to be working. Ms. Shaw must be trying to reach him. “I’m on my way.” He closes the connection again before turning back.

John wags two fingers in the air between them. “Harold, what are you telling me, here?”

He nervously puts his hands in his pockets, becoming very interested in his shoes. “That I’m no longer engaged, I suppose.”

In for a dollar, in for a million dollars. “And that although I reacted the way I did when you first…touched me, I’ve thought about it, since.” He winces at his unromantic phrasing, but still braves a glance at John.

He’s sort of grinning. It’s his most lopsided, downright evil smirk.

“Really?” The word is gravelly, overtly flirtatious, almost a purr. That’s all vanished from his tone a second later, as he exits the safehouse. “Well. Good talk, Harold. I better go. People to save.” He winks.

“That’s _it_?” Harold says exasperatedly, to the closing door.

—

Reese spends the rest of the day fending off HR as they attempt to reclaim their missing baseball. Harold makes his way back to the library. He’s sitting at his desk alone when, still connected to Natalie’s phone, it transpires she played Hayden all along and intends to get on a plane without him. The signal cuts off shortly thereafter, but not before Natalie tells Hayden: _“If you love something, set it free.”_

Perhaps Harold is foolish, being reminded of Grace by every red-haired female they happen to encounter, but he can’t help taking this advice to heart, even when it’s not directed at him.

He won’t snoop on Grace’s finances again. He mustn’t. And he can’t keep gazing wistfully at remnants of the past. He closes the phone tracking window, navigating to the desktop. His mouse hovers over the partitioned file containing that photograph. He’s about to delete it, when the door opens downstairs. A quick glance at the library’s CCTV feed confirms who it is. Harold completely forgets what he was doing, releases all computer equipment and leans back in his chair. Then he feels awkward about looking like he’s been waiting for John, so he picks up a camera from the table to have something to do with his hands. Reese and Shaw took two out earlier this week, trying to get a good capture of Hayden from the roof of a building opposite the office.

At least, that was the intended use. It appears Mr. Reese kept his zoomed in and focused on Harold instead, reclining with his feet up, eyes closed. Harold scrolls through the images. There are around fifty, all of him.

“Hi, Harold,” John says, at the top of the stairs. Harold lifts his gaze from the camera as John strides confidently toward him. For a moment he just watches John walk, before he gathers himself to reply.

“Good evening, Mr. Reese.” To Harold’s embarrassment, the simple words wobble, weakened.

“Anything wrong, Finch?”

Harold shakes his head minutely, coughing to clear his throat.

“Did you feed Root yet?”

“N-no, I should probably -” Harold starts to get up, but John’s hand settles on his shoulder.

“It’s fine, I’ll go.”

“Oh. Thank you.” John’s turned around again by the time Harold calls after him. “Would you meet me in the reading room when you’re done? I thought we might continue our conversation from earlier.”

—

The reading room is not strictly a room, more an alcove, between Natural and Applied Science. It has fewer windows and very comfortable armchairs, and it’s situated far enough away from both the main street entrance and Root’s Faraday cage. Harold takes John’s camera with him, unable to put it down. He knows what John has said, but this seems like proof, in a more tangible form than Harold has considered before now.

Viewing himself captured this way should unnerve him, when he’s spent a lifetime avoiding being seen. And while he can’t really see what John is seeing…He can’t entirely deny that he looks good in these photographs. It’s not one of his most flattering suits, and he has an unfortunate double chin when he uses the tablet, but one or two aren’t bad. Particularly when he looks…transported, in some way, even though he’s obviously faking it. John has also taken pictures of his hands, and traveled down Harold’s legs to his crossed ankles. There’s not a part of him left unappreciated.

“Sorry, I was going to delete those.”

Harold gives a start. “Don’t sneak up, please.”

“I didn’t! You’re distracted.”

“I suppose I am.” He passes the camera over, as John’s holding out a hand for it. A moment later he angles it to show Harold the SD card is now empty. Harold has a moment of regret. His proof is gone. But they couldn’t have kept it, not with Shaw and Root around.

“How is she?”

John sinks into the other chair, setting the camera down on a table stacked with books between them. “Restless. She keeps playing with the blinds. If she tries to break that window…”

“She’ll have a long drop down,” Harold retorts flatly.

“I like it when you’re merciless.”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “I don’t. I need you to be my moral compass, too, you know.”

John blinks. “You’d trust my judgment? After all I’ve done?”

“I trust you to reel me in if I’m acting unfairly based on emotion.”

“That’s a risky proposal, Harold. If you’re upset, I am, too.”

“We might be biased,” Harold concedes.

“We’re idiots,” John announces, putting up his hands.

“Speak for yourself,” Harold protests, trying to frown at him, while privately enjoying how animated he is now, instead of the subdued man who insisted he was no good to anyone.

“Pretending we know what’s best for people and their lives, when we’ve made such a mess of our own?”

“The best we can aim for is giving them a second chance, as we’ve given each other. I think we achieved that, today.”

“Natalie’s free and clear?”

Harold realizes he hasn’t quite tied up a loose end. “I lost her cell trace. I can call Carter, check HR didn’t catch her before she left the country.”

John’s on his feet. “That’s more a job for Fusco. I’ll be right back.”

This is the trouble with workplace relationships, Harold thinks. Then smiles confusedly to himself, because that’s a new thought.

He hasn’t asked John what he makes of all this. Being made to wait for Harold on a technicality. He wasn’t planning to reveal so much this morning.

He waits anxiously for John to return, and does notice his returning footsteps this time.

“She’s fine. She got on a plane to Sydney. HR don’t know it was her.”

“Good. Thank you for thinking of that.”

“So. You wanted to tell me more about how you’re a free man now?” John looks eager, and Harold’s face heats up.

He tries to find adequate words. “The night Collier shot you, I felt…something. But I was concussed. I dismissed it.”

It’s clear John is thinking back. “When you tried to hold my hand? That was weird. I thought you pitied me.”

“I thought so too. I’ve been terribly confused. I'm not attracted to men. Just you. I don't understand this.”

John tilts his head, left temple resting on his fingertips. “You don’t need to label it.”

“John. You're talking to the man who came up with a system to place everybody on the planet in one of two lists.”

John laughs. “Okay. _You_ need to label it.”

“You’re being incredibly patient with me.”

John shrugs, as though it costs him nothing. “Can I ask…you don’t seem surprised that Grace could go out with a woman?”

Harold matches him question for question. “You’re okay mentioning her now?”

John looks stricken, shifting in his chair. “Oh, yeah. I never should have said that. It was an emotional night. We can talk about her.”

Something complicated unwinds itself in Harold’s chest, lifts a weight off his shoulders. “About a month into our courtship, Grace told me she’s bisexual. I already knew, since the Machine had been showing me everything about her for two years at this point. She checked a box on a form once.”

“Huh. That’s two things me and Grace have in common. Both bi, both fell for you…wow, two _years_? Do you never see someone you like and just go for it?”

“No. I’m old-fashioned that way,” Harold replies, aware he sounds uptight and prim. But underneath this he’s trying to control a different reaction, because he can too well imagine John ‘ _just going for it_ ’.

Plus the offhand way he mentions falling for Harold, like it’s a timeless fact rather than an incomprehensible gift.

“Is it possible you’ve dismissed feelings for guys in the past, or not noticed them? Before you let me find Grace, I thought maybe you loved Nathan, whether you knew it or not.”

Harold exhales through his nose, amused. “I didn’t know you thought that. He was a dear friend, but no. He could be…irritating.”

“Am I irritating?” John asks, cheekily.

“Yes. Very.” Harold tries to say it with a straight face, but his lips keep tugging upward at the corners.

John smiles back, not even bothering to hide it. Harold watches his thumb trace slowly back and forth over one pronounced cheekbone. “So what’s different?”

Harold swallows and tugs at his vest, shifting his weight further back into the chair. “That’s a hell of a question, John.” He looks into the middle distance for a moment, thinking about it. “You and I didn’t grow up together, for one. In college, Nathan flicked Cheetos at the back of my head while I studied.”

“Okay, that’s a turn-off for you. I won’t do that.” John quickly scrapes a nail over his thigh close to the knee, like he’s crossing it off a to-do list.

“Despite all your many skills, you’re never arrogant. You don’t disappear from work for days at a time, you don’t brag about conquests, your timing is impeccable…” He’s listing things that make John a better work partner, not necessarily a romantic interest. Harold needs to try harder. “You’re fluent in more languages than I am. Your eyes are…mercurial. I’ve noticed how gentle your hands are, with me and with others. I do think you might be somebody I could lean on, emotionally and physically, which is new for me. I still want to protect you, but it’s a work in progress. I’m doing it now, I’m trying to share.”

“For a very private person, I’d say you’re doing pretty well.”

“Did I answer your question?”

“In way more detail than I expected. I wasn’t sure if you were having trouble because I’ve been interested in you for so long. You could have tricked yourself into feeling something you don’t because it would solve a lot of our problems. I’m not so worried about that now.” Then he turns shy. “Also, it was really nice to hear.”

Harold finds himself relaxing further. This is a good start. “You _should_ get to hear nice things.”

— 

Harold’s aimlessly walking when the proximity alarm buzzes in his pocket. Grace is climbing out of a taxi, fifty meters from him. She pays the driver and opens a small set of gates, far enough to step through them. Harold lurches away around the corner. There’s a solid brick wall, taller than Harold. He puts his back against it and feels his heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. He wrenches the phone out of his pocket to silence the alarm and reads one word:

_STAY_

Harold mouths at the screen. “Why?”

_CLOSURE._

He has somehow wandered as far as the cemetery. Harold’s never been here before. 

On the other side of the wall, Grace walks up to Harold Martin’s empty grave.

“Hey, Harold.” Her voice strikes him with a wave of treasured memories. She speaks quietly but the small, bare churchyard has a slight natural echo. It means Harold can hear every word if he concentrates and the wind keeps blowing in the right direction.

“I feel a little guilty, I haven’t been to see you in a while. I’ve been so busy planning for the future, I haven’t thought about you as often as I should have. And this could be my last visit for a while.

You remember Elena, my friend from work? Her mother is sick. We…well, I should say that she isn’t only my friend anymore. After you were gone, I didn’t tell anyone, not even my parents. I wandered around in a daze hardly speaking to another person, but then Elena called. She’d met you, she guessed what was wrong with me. She was really kind. Having her there helped me through the worst of it.

It took about two years before I realized I needed her in my life every day. And I fought it, at first, because… this is stupid, but a part of me still hopes you’ll come back. Not to get married, but so I’d know you’re okay. Anyway, she’s been incredibly patient. About my need to stay in New York. But I can’t deny her family the right to see her now. And we don’t want to be apart, so... “

There’s a crinkle of plastic. Harold can’t see what she’s doing. For a moment he thinks about moving, perhaps walking up one of the fire escapes on the building across the street, but then his phone lights up again. The Machine has sent him the feed from a camera on the opposite side of the cemetery. It’s a long way up in the air, but he can make out her standing there, and, when he pinches the screen to zoom in, he recognizes a blue rectangle wrapped in clear acetate, sitting at the foot of the cross which has his name on it.

“I asked Elena what to do and she said keep it. She’s so sweet that way. She said if someone had given her as romantic a thing as this, she’d keep it in a shoebox the rest of her days, no matter what. I want to make sure she gets plenty of little mementos from me, in time. I just... I feel like it belongs with you, now. Not with us. I should have buried it here maybe, but I didn’t want to, when it had the good sense to float to shore and you…didn’t. Silly. “ She chuckles at the slight chiding tone in her voice. “But it feels morbid now. I was cleaning out the old bureau in the spare room and there it was, full of dust. The cutout pages were starting to come away from the spine. I’ve stuck it back together the best I could, but I can’t keep restoring it forever. I’ve put the ring back inside.”

She takes a step back, knotting her hands together in front of her, looking at them, before sliding them into her pockets. “You know, I…” She smiles, wistfully. _“_ _I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.”_

“Charles Dickens,” Harold murmurs, in recognition. “ _Great Expectations._ ” His eyes swim with tears, but he blinks them back so he can continue to drink in every moment of being this close to her.

She stands there for another minute, then shakily manages: “Bye.”

She walks away, out through the gate, down the road, away from Harold. Her red hair blowing behind her. Harold gazes after her until she’s no longer in view.

Then he turns his attention back to his phone. His voice is surprisingly calm. “You understand closure? When did I teach you that?”

_YOU DIDN’T._

—

Harold answers the call at his desk. “Good morning, Detective.”

Fusco sounds agitated, and slightly out of breath. Likely hurrying back to work before his Captain notices he’s been gone. “Carter just lied to me. She knows what happened to Laskey and won’t say. She’s been mixed up in a lot of shady crap lately. I’m worried about her.”

“We’re worried about her too.”

“If she won’t talk to me, what about John?”

“Mr. Reese has already been to see her, last night. She requested that he keep his distance, for the sake of her career.”

“Shutting everyone out, then. Any clue what she’s up to? Besides taking pictures?”

“She has moved Taylor out of the city, so whatever she’s planning, it’s likely to be dangerous.”

“Great. Trust you to be reassuring.” Lionel’s voice is thick with sarcasm.

Harold responds to this remark by warning him in a falsely cheerful way: “Also, don’t visit her house. HR have a car outside.”

“Jesus. This has gone on long enough. Something’s gotta give.”

“Please don’t do anything rash. We’re monitoring the situation.”

He sighs reluctantly. “I’m sure you’ll tell me when to really panic.”

“Precisely.”

—

“Carter’s not going to let us help her. She’s taking on the entire organization, alone.” There’s a strained vulnerability to John’s voice that brings a sympathetic lump to Harold’s own throat.

Looking remarkably defeated, Reese walks toward the desk and takes something small and electronic from his pocket, sets it down beside Finch’s hand. “From her nightstand. She was watching me on it, knew I’d entered her place. The video feed had to be going somewhere. I wondered if you could trace it? Get a fix on her new burner?”

Harold picks it up and takes the back off. “It’s a long shot, if she’s already turned it off, but I can try.” He briefly glances up at John. “Are you alright?”

John fiddles with a stack of books on the desk, pressing their spines into alignment. “Just worried. Joss is the best cop this city has, maybe has ever had. She used to be the one to talk _me_ down from revenge. Now, it’s consuming her, and I can’t -” His voice cracks, full of desperation, and Harold reaches for his hand without thinking about it.

“I know. She’ll be okay. She has proven herself more than capable,” Harold says, thinking of the efficient, strategically planned way she took down the truck. He squeezes John’s fingers. They’re slightly cool from being outside, but warming slowly from contact with Harold’s skin. With his right hand he keeps working toward the tiny camera embedded in the device. He reaches for his magnifying glass and manages to hook the relevant wires up to his computers.

A diagnostic runs onscreen. Harold puts his wrist down as he reads, and bumps the camera with his sleeve cuff. Another monitor suddenly displays a tiny shifting crescent of light. Harold’s shoulders tense.

“Oh, it’s…” John reaches under the camera, smooths his left thumb over it. The sliver of light briefly widens then disappears. “I taped over the lens before I left with it. To protect the library.”

“Good thinking.” He turns and smiles up at Reese gratefully. John’s eyes soften, meeting his.

Then Harold lurches out of his chair as he thinks of something, dropping John’s hand. “Speaking of, I should probably…if it’s motion activated…” He hurries over to the drawers in the corner and fishes out a homemade piece of kit, an EMP jammer to detect any ongoing signal patterns. When he turns it on and sets it down next to the camera, it remains silent.

“No trace.” John concludes, sadly.

Harold takes his seat again. “No matter. If it has a memory, however rudimentary…it might remember where it was programmed to send information even though the signal’s dead.”

He returns to his diagnostic window, typing quickly, but runs out of code without finding what he was hoping to see. It’s too basic. He cannot give it extra functionality after the fact.

John must read Harold’s expression. He doesn’t comment, just moves onto the next plan. “She knows we know about Quinn, now. Maybe we should follow him instead.”

“What about the Numbers?” Harold reminds him.

John’s lips go thin. Harold stands and maneuvers around him, drawing his attention to the glass board.

"While you were looking for Detective Carter, I received more of them." There’s a new row of faces above the rest, all top level HR.

Looking at the board, with hardly any open space remaining, causes Harold to sink back against the desk, resting against the edge. They have their work cut out for them.

—

Finding Joss Carter, when she doesn’t want to be found, is not an easy task. Reese and Shaw split up and cover a lot of ground, but they are ultimately without luck, until she chooses to surface.

Harold answers the phone when she does. She gives him no opportunity to persuade her to reconsider her course of action. Instead she launches in with: _"Any chance you're up on Quinn's phone?"_

He is so relieved to hear her voice, he slumps back in his chair and closes his eyes. "I tried earlier but someone had already bluejacked it."

Carter chuckles. _"Yeah, that was me. Try again. I smashed mine."_

Hope restored, Harold starts typing again. _"To stop us from tracking you, I’m aware."_ A fraction of Harold’s worry colors his voice.

_"I have a plan to get Quinn to confess to Cal’s murder. Be ready to record everything."_

She rattles off an address and Harold brings it up on a map, listens to the rev of an engine in the background of the call. She’s heading there fast.

“I realize you’d prefer him to keep his distance…” Harold tries, because John would never forgive him if he didn’t.

Carter heaves a sigh. _“Okay, sure, invite John to the party too. You know, it’s great that you boys are so married. I don’t have to make two calls.”_ She laughs to herself, Harold hears a noise that might be her slapping the steering wheel.

“Thanks for letting us help you, Joss,” Harold says, earnestly. He’s already texting John the address.

_“After all this time, I guess I owe you that much. One condition, though.”_

“Name it.” Harold is focused on gaining remote access to Quinn’s cell, and doesn’t realize his mistake until a moment later.

 _“Will you take pity on him, sometime this century?”_ She sounds far too cheerful, under the circumstances.

Harold starts to blush. “I don’t know what you mean. You know better than to ask me personal questions.” He tries to sound affronted, but it comes out more flustered. That amuses her too, if a half-snort is any indication.

 _"Awww, Harold. I just got off the phone with my son's father, possibly for the last time.”_ She explains, her mirth dwindling. _“Forgive me for being a little emotional. I’d like some things to go the way I hoped."_

She…hoped he and John would get together? Has Carter known for longer than either of them? Harold wonders, but doesn’t ask.

Instead, he promises: "You'll see your family again soon, Joss. Mr. Reese and I will make that happen. That is our job."

—

Carter makes it out of the corrupt judge’s house alive, with Reese assisting and Quinn in her custody. Harold anonymously emails the recording of Quinn’s confession to every news outlet in the country. But they face a perilous journey back into the city, dodging cops at every junction.

Harold dares to leave his desk for twenty minutes because Bear really needs a walk. The Machine sends him thirty-five Numbers, all corresponding to various aliases of John Reese.

HR have captured an image of Reese leaving the house, and now it’s everywhere. Harold will build a worm to recover and delete every electronic copy of that photograph, and he will still be totally helpless to protect him, this time. Oh, god.

It’s in this moment that Harold knows, with terrible sinking certainty, that his heart belongs to this man.

“It appears that every criminal in New York is trying to kill you.” He can barely get the sentence out. A bitter chill runs down his back.

Mr. Reese responds with his typical flat nonchalance to this news, which doesn’t reassure Harold in the least. Almost immediately, someone approaches Reese, spoiling for a fight. Harold listens to the sounds of violence, feeling very small indeed. He wants John not to be so far away. He wants to put his arms around John and warn the rest of the world that they can’t have him.

 _“Finch, I need an -”_ The call cuts off abruptly, followed by the GPS dot on Harold’s screens.

“Mr. Reese? Can you hear me?”

Harold is frozen. Mind blank.

Then he remembers. In John’s words: he’s supposed to be sending the cavalry. “Ms. Shaw, I'm afraid I've lost contact with Mr. Reese.” Shaw and Fusco are in a car together, heading out of the city, hoping to meet Reese and Carter partway and provide assistance. He means to urge them to hurry, or at least warn them that plans may be changing rapidly without his knowledge.

But then Shaw says something which surprises him. _“You could ask her to locate him for you. She’s bent the rules already. Just give Root a phone.”_

Her loyalties are more divided than he thought. Root must have somehow got to her, in those few days that they worked together to save Greenfield. But Shaw delivered Root to him, rather than let her roam free. He never expected her to argue for Root’s release, not even for expediency’s sake.

But Reese and Carter are out there, risking their lives, potentially injured, and it’s vitally important that Quinn does not escape.

“You know I can’t do that.” Harold chides her, and then suggests that she and Fusco split up to cover the two most direct paths Reese could take.

This choice costs him dearly when Fusco is taken by Simmons. He has to decide whether to keep Shaw on her mission to locate Reese and Carter or turn back to rescue Fusco. Reese has made it through the checkpoint, back into the city, and has had access to an ambulance and its supplies. If they’re lucky, they’ll avoid detection for long enough to travel to their endpoint. And John would never forgive Harold for protecting him over Fusco.

Even though John is the Number.

His team is fracturing. Meanwhile Root, potentially the solution to all of this, is pacing in her cage.

—

Bear instinctively stays close beside him all the way there, sensing Harold’s brittle emotional state. The dog barks and whimpers, sniffing the locked gate and then scampering away down the corridor, as if he wishes Harold would follow his example and turn back.

“Something's wrong with your attack dog.” Root observes, mildly.

“He appears to be the smart one.”

She shoots him an amused look at that, but her face falls when he turns the key in the padlock and carries in the tea tray.

“Why are you still awake?”

Harold almost objects to the question, although it is past midnight. He has never kept regular hours, but this is the latest to date that he has brought Root something. He sets down her refreshments on the table and turns away from her affected concern for his wellbeing.

“What's gotten you so upset? Is the big lug in trouble?”

He spins quickly back to face her upon hearing that, far too tired and anxious to conceal his weakness, blinking rapidly.

She smirks. “Has his Number finally come up? I don't really care for the man myself, but he means everything to you.” She cannot read minds, but has an uncanny way of appearing to.

“So…if you can see it fit to set me free from this cage, I'll return him to you, unharmed.” She’s offering the very thing he wants to ask for, but hearing Root say it renders the idea ridiculous. As though Reese is a damsel, rather than the most capable operative the CIA ever had.

“How could I ever let you go… when I know with an almost absolute certainty that bad things will happen?”

“Bad things will happen regardless.”

Harold’s mouth twists. He should be helping his friends. He’s on the other side of the gate in a second, but she follows a step behind. They face each other on the threshold, Root’s stance loose and fluid, Harold growing tenser by the second. He gets the fleeting impression that he might have to use something John has taught him. Root cannot push past him without being electrocuted, but he doesn’t doubt she could kill him on this very spot if properly motivated. He quickly closes the gate between them.

“The question is, are you gonna let them happen to your boyfriend? Come on, Harry. Let's not pretend that John is your first helper monkey. Exactly how many guys did you go through before him?”

Harold’s brow furrows and he locks her in, retreating with uncertain footsteps.

Why would the Machine tell Root about Dillinger? Or did she dig up that part of Harold’s past on her own? He can’t imagine how. It’s not as though he left a paper trail. She’s very good with bank accounts, but even for that she would have needed a name. A starting point to begin pulling at that thread.

Harold is still protecting the Machine, but the Machine is no longer protecting his secrets. This sort of thing is exactly why he doesn’t want Root to build her entire identity around it. She was betrayed by humans, and reacted the way she did. If the entity she considers infinitely more valuable were to do something remotely similar…he worries there would be no anchor left for her.

He was intending to try to reason with her, but she has her ways of making that impossible. Her default approach is threats instead of compromises. As well as reminding Harold that he has been careless with other people’s lives before.

Returning to his workstation, Harold sinks into his chair and sees an email open onscreen which he doesn’t recognize. It can only be from the Machine. Opening the attachment brings up a video. A bird’s eye view from the corner of a small bland office, a man behind a desk. It takes Harold a moment to identify him, as he can only see the top of his balding head. Dr. Ronald Carmichael. Root is led in, two men holding each of her arms. They sit her down. The date stamp says this was back in June. Two weeks prior to her escape.

Carmichael begins. _“I'd like to talk about something real, Robin. I'd love to know what you're really thinking, so why don't we start with the truth?”_

Root smiles and points at him. _“The truth is you are not very smart. In fact, you're only the 43rd smartest person in this building.”_

The psychiatrist settles back in his chair. _“That's based on what?”_

_“Every standardized test you ever took averaged together, not including your medical boards, which you cheated on.”_

Harold sits up straighter. “What?!”

_“The truth is that you fantasize on online forums about having sex with some of your patients, though not me... yet.”_

Flinching, Harold hits pause, looking straight into the camera. “Why didn’t you alert me to this at the time?” Why would the Machine allow him to institutionalize Root in a facility with unfit doctors? Especially given what happened to her childhood friend. Harold had trusted the staff to help make her better. He’s suddenly glad she broke out when she did, even if her method for doing so was…colorful.

After Harold unpauses the video, Root continues: _“The truth is, God is 11 years old, that she was born on New Year's Day, 2002, in Manhattan. The truth… is that she's chosen me.”_ Root glances up at the camera then. Through time, at Harold. She has a look of sheer determination. The clip ends there.

The Machine’s message is clear. It’s brutal, but very effective.

Harold abruptly can’t stomach keeping Root locked up anymore. He’ll probably always be afraid of her, but she did help them save a Number. It’s likely she has no intention of locating Mr. Reese…she has some other agenda here. So be it.

Harold checks his own video feed from the present day. Root is curled up on her side on the padded bench, facing the wall. He can’t be sure, but he thinks she’s asleep. If he’s going to do this, it had better be now.

Harold moves all the books from his desk onto a cart, clearing up, shutting everything down.

He takes something from a drawer, drops it in his pocket and turns to see Bear sitting in his way. The dog’s shoulders appear hunched, tail flicking the floor behind him. Harold bends to stroke the back of his head. “I know, boy,” he murmurs. “Wait here quietly for me. Then we’ll go together, hmm?” He holds a finger across his lips. Bear licks his own and then reluctantly flops over, sets his head on his paws. Harold steps around him and puts on his coat.

Heading back to Root’s cage sets his heart beating fast. He has to consciously take deeper breaths. She’s not about to jump up and start rattling the wire, but it feels like it to his overstressed mind.

Removing the padlock without it clinking against anything is a delicate task. He doesn’t want to alert her to his presence. Mercifully his hands are steady, although his head is almost spinning.

The lock goes in his pocket and he takes out the device. Its purpose is to deactivate the ankle bracelet. He sets it on a bookshelf in plain sight. By the time Root gets herself out, he’ll be gone.

—

Harold forgets Bear’s leash on his hasty way out of the building. Fortunately Bear is carrying it in his mouth. _Good dog_ _,_ he thinks fiercely, fumbling as he attaches it to the collar. He doesn’t quite have the breath for words.

He spends the early hours of the morning out on the streets, with Bear for company. HR’s foot soldiers have put up wanted posters for the Man in the Suit all over the city. One by one, Harold tears them down. His code is already removing John’s face from the web and any downloaded copies on computers, tablets and phones, but it can’t stop word of mouth. He’s also hoping that following the placement of the posters will lead him to HR, either the place they’ve taken Fusco or by coincidence, bumping into John who will likely turn up wherever there are swarms of criminals following him.

He really hopes he hasn’t doomed everyone, by trusting the Machine’s orders. If Root truly wants to help John, now she can. Harold will be responsible for any other lives she takes in the process, but he learned the hard way from losing Nathan that even when you want to protect everyone, you have to protect the ones you love first.

Harold calls the dead-drop voice-mail number he and John set up, back when they first started working together. He’s hoping Reese will have thought to leave him a message there, if he deems it too risky to phone directly. Nothing.

Shivering from cold, it seems he checks his phone every five minutes. Nobody contacts Harold until gone 4 o’clock. It’s Shaw.

 _“Hey, Harold.”_ She’s speaking strangely slow and softly, which rings faint alarm bells. She hardly ever does that. _“Got news on Fusco. He wouldn’t give up Carter so they sent someone to kill his son. I stopped them, but I had to choose. I had to leave Fusco on his own.”_ He listens with increasing horror.

Harold can’t believe Shaw went through all that and shielded him from it. They’ve both had to make some momentous decisions tonight.

He hardly dares to ask: “And Lionel?”

_“Lionel saved himself. He’s handy like that. Well, maybe not handy.”_

Relieved, Harold lets out the breath he’s holding. At the same time, he has the odd impression she’s making a joke, and doesn’t understand it.

She realizes and explains herself. _“As part of the, uh, torture…Simmons kinda broke some of Fusco’s fingers. Sorry, I didn’t mean to have to tell you that.”_

Harold sinks onto a nearby bench and rubs his forehead. “May I speak with him?” Bear leans his hind leg against Harold’s ankle, pressing close but remaining upright and alert, making sure nobody approaches Harold while his focus is elsewhere.

_“Yeah, I’m not actually with him. He’s on his way to the hospital and then he’ll come home and be with Lee. But he has a job for you?”_

He opens a notetaking app on his phone. “Go ahead.”

_“Fusco says Simmons took something from him when he knocked him unconscious. A key. Simmons has it now. It’s vitally important Fusco gets it back. He’s managed to get Simmons’ number off the phone of another HR guy. Can you trace it via the cell towers and get back to me?”_

“If Simmons is still using it to make calls, yes, of course.”

She reads the number and Harold takes it down.

“What do you intend to do now, Ms. Shaw?”

_“I have a couple things to take care of.”_

“Reading between the lines…by things, you mean bodies.”

_“Ugh, don’t start. I killed him so he wouldn’t shoot the kid. I didn’t have time to do anything else.”_

Harold sighs. “I promise I’m not about to lecture you. I was hoping you’d be able to switch focus back to finding Reese and Carter, but of course, restoring some sort of normality to Lionel’s home must come first. If you hear anything…”

She promises to update him, and they hang up.

It takes Harold a few minutes and a bit of trial-and-error to access the correct network records on his phone, then to piece together an approximate record of the phone’s path across the city.

Threatening a child…well, HR have crossed that line before, of course, they saw this with Genrika. He can’t imagine the awfulness of the night Lee Fusco is experiencing. Simmons and his associates are despicable human beings.

Harold compiles his findings and emails them to Shaw. He might follow Simmons himself, now. It’s amazing that the man has kept his phone with him. He has evidently learned nothing from Harold’s remote recording of his boss’ confession.

He gets up and starts walking again, in the direction of Federal Plaza. Within an hour or two, the food stalls start opening up. Harold’s stomach rumbles, so he buys himself a pastry and an extra strong coffee. He’s been up all night, he needs the caffeine. He would have preferred green tea, but they don’t have it.

He starts to feel guilty, eating when he doesn’t know where John is or how he’s faring. So many things could have happened to Reese that Harold will go mad if he allows himself to contemplate them. He lets Bear have the uneaten half of the meat-filled pastry. Bear could use some water too. Bear could…oh! Bear could trace him? Why didn’t he think to bring one of Reese’s scarves from the coat stand in the library? Harold curses himself for not thinking of it sooner. He’s wasted so many hours.

To the apartment, then. It’s still rather a long shot, but he needs a plan. And it’s preferable to the one where he gets spotted while following Simmons and killed.

The sun is coming up by the time Harold lets himself into John’s loft. It’s empty, of course. Bear goes straight to the water bowl in the corner and drinks noisily. Harold walks over to the table and sets his shoulder bag down on it, emptying out handfuls of crumpled and torn wanted posters bearing John’s face. He’ll shred them thoroughly later. He didn’t want to leave any in public trashcans.

Harold leans heavily against the table. He could sit, for five minutes, couldn’t he? His feet and hip are agony. But what if John doesn’t have five minutes? If his number is up, that means a high chance of imminent danger.

He quickly uses the bathroom and then goes through the hamper for a sock Bear can sniff.

When Harold returns, Bear is refreshed and waiting for him.

They head back out onto the street. “Zoek, Bear.” To Harold’s amazement, the dog sets off confidently to the left. Harold has watched John training him and understands the theory, but has never tried it himself. Is John closer than he expects? His hopes seem brighter.

But another ninety minutes of walking have really taken the shine off. Bear finally stops before a cross-walk, turning his head up at Harold and whining very apologetically. He’s lost the trail and hasn’t wanted to admit it. Harold is quite close to tears, bending to stroke his back. “That’s okay, boy, thank you for trying.” He straightens up and asks himself: “What now?”

His phone chimes in his pocket. It’s a text, from Unknown.

_Can meet you 9.30, breakfast place on 9th & W 42? Get a table outside._

Harold frowns at it. That…doesn’t sound like John. As far as Harold remembers, they don’t have a favorite diner there. Could it be Root? He didn’t expect to hear from her again so soon.

Well, at least it’s only two streets away. Plus, he’s in dire need of information.

Harold doesn’t recognize her until she’s right in front of him. She’s wearing a baseball cap and a navy-blue cable knit sweater, not her style at all. Carter lifts her chin at him, a nod that turns into a grin. He startles upright, reaches out to clasp her hand warmly. He narrowly avoids exclaiming: _Detective!_ Which would have ruined the scheme entirely.

“Not perfect camouflage, but it’s a start,” she says, settling into the chair next to his. Bear paws at her leg until she pets him and makes kissing noises. Carter has a backpack which she sets under the table.

“You seem happy,” Harold says.

She smiles again. “Yeah. I did it.” Harold’s heart leaps with this victory. “The Feds have him. I went with them to collect the evidence.”

“Ms. Shaw mentioned something about a key?”

“That’s right. I just called Fusco to let him know he doesn’t need to worry about that anymore. Even if Simmons got into the right bank and found the right box, it’s empty now.”

Harold’s face falls when she mentions Fusco.

Carter’s tone hardens. “He told me what happened. I should have warned him to get Lee out of here, the same day I sent Taylor. I’ve not been good at looking after my partners, lately.” She’s referring to Laskey as well as Lionel.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for that.”

She shrugs and quirks an eyebrow at him. “But you would, if you were in my position.” Unfortunately, she’s right.

And speaking of partners…”Have you heard from John?”

She makes a face, like she can’t believe Harold is asking her. “He hasn’t called you?”

Harold puts his hands together on the table. “I haven’t heard from him since Queens Plaza.” He doesn’t mention that John is the Number.

“Shit. That was when Quinn stamped on his phone. Last I saw him was one street across from the FBI building. He got us as far as he could, then I made him turn back. I assumed he’d go straight to you. Did he try to find Fusco?”

“I don’t know. What exactly happened after you got off the bridge and through the checkpoint?”

“Er…first we had to persuade the ambulance driver that we _were_ the police and he didn’t need a lawyer. He couldn’t call anyone, his phone got shot. Ditched his vehicle, paid him to forget all about us, started dragging Quinn along again. Then a gang called out and was following us. Ducked around a corner, heard a shot…and somehow we lost them. That happened more than once. Reese and I only had thirty bullets between us. We were running out of ammo toward the end. Someone was scaring people away from us, on the rooftops. If that was Shaw, you better thank her from me.”

Harold doesn’t mention that Shaw was searching for Fusco then. She couldn’t have been in both places at once.

 _Thank you, Root._ She came through on her deal after all.

So why is John still missing?

“Harold? I need you to say goodbye to Shaw for me. I’ll be non-contactable for a few months, maybe more.”

“Oh.” Her disguise takes on greater significance.

She holds her hands out. “I’ve done my best. Prepared for this for months. Quinn hasn’t had his official say yet. He’ll be talking to his lawyers by now, saying all he can to discredit me. The FBI want me in protective custody, too. I’ve told them I’m going to fetch an overnight bag. But I’m not going back. After all this, I don’t trust any government agency with my life.”

Harold huffs with dark amusement. “That’s more wise than you know.”

“All those members of HR, I just ended their careers. If they kill me before this thing goes to trial…”

Harold lays a hand on her arm. “You realize what you’re giving up? If you fail to appear at that trial?”

“My career, yes. What’s left of it. I need to hold onto my family more.”

Harold nods solemnly. “I thought you might decide that.” He reaches into one of his coat pockets, and hands Carter an envelope with cash and new passports for herself, Taylor and Paul. “The very best of luck to you. And…thank you.”

She unzips her bag and slips the envelope in. “You too. Will you be okay? You seem preoccupied.”

Harold rests his elbows on the table and his chin on both hands. “I can’t fathom why John hasn’t been in touch. I’m really worried about him.”

“My best guess is he’s doing something he doesn’t want you to see. If he found out about Fusco’s son…you know how he gets when people target kids. And… he pretty much falls apart when he thinks you’re ashamed of him.”

Harold remembers how John confided in Carter, those days after the Watkins’ deaths.

Carter gets to her feet and pats Harold’s shoulder. “He’s _your_ family, isn’t he. Give him all the love you can muster. He’s got a lot of bad days to make up for.”

She takes one step away and turns back. “Oh, and… I’m taking a few of his toys.” She winks.

Harold laughs. “If he misses them, I’ll replace them.” He holds up a hand in farewell. “Be safe. We’ll see you again.”

—

Harold’s earpiece crackles to life. He hasn’t accepted a call. Checking the screen shows that he has been connected to…someone. At first it sounds like a pocket dial, muffled and scratchy. Perhaps Detective Fusco…

A voice, very distinct, echoing in an open space.

_“Found you. This time, I won’t lose.”_

Simmons. Harold’s jaw drops in terror. He abruptly swipes to the cell trace he did earlier. It’s still active. One of the old ports. Northwest of here, two blocks.

The next voice freezes the breath in his chest.

_“We’ll see about that.”_

“John!” A passerby side-eyes Harold.

John can’t hear him. The call only goes one way. Or rather, it’s not a call, but a live microphone feed, like the one Harold used to record Quinn’s confession.

He and Bear set off as fast as they can. As they hurry, the noise in Harold’s ear devolves again, into grunting and punching and boots scraping in dirt.

Of course Mr. Reese would make sure Simmons followed him instead of Carter. Simmons has had a strong hatred for the Man in the Suit for years now. He no doubt aims to kill them both, but Reese is buying enough time for Carter to get away. That, or…John intends to be the perpetrator. He knew Harold wouldn’t like either plan.

Harold has to stop this. He rounds a corner and is brought up short by the crowd of pedestrians at a stoplight. Bear helps him find a way through, picking up speed again after. In his earpiece the fight rages on, mostly drowned out by the immediate noise surrounding Harold.

He makes it to the end of that street, the road ahead mercifully empty. Harold is halfway across it when John yells in pain. There’s a thud like a body hitting the ground, and Harold’s world stops. He’s staring at the phone in his hand, tracking dot still blinking, insensible of anything else. A car narrowly misses him at speed, horn blaring. Bear gets behind Harold and shoves his whole body at Harold’s legs, until he takes the necessary steps to stand safely on the sidewalk.

John’s voice. _“Using a knife in a fistfight. Not very sportsmanlike.”_

Victorious, Simmons says: _“I hate sports.”_

He must do something else to John, perhaps crouching down to twist the handle, because John cries out again. _“Aaagh! Leave it in!”_

 _“Hard luck, Suit Guy. My prints are on it.”_ There’s another wordless scream. _“Have fun bleeding out.”_

Bear is moving again. Harold allows himself to be led. He’s still straining to hear through the earpiece, anything at all. He identifies a car door slamming shut and an engine starting up. Simmons is getting away.

There aren’t that many roads leading to this part of town. Simmons drives right past Harold in an SUV, doesn’t take any notice. Perhaps he’s far beyond worrying about potential witnesses at this point. There’s nothing Harold can do to stop him, except take a photo of his rear plates.

He’s close now. The day has warmed up, the sun baking down. Bear must be able to smell the blood. Harold’s stomach turns at the thought.

They leave the street behind, tarmac ending abruptly at the edge of private commercial land. From here to the water there’s just dirt, or sand, supporting rusting metal structures, and small abandoned bare brick buildings with broken windows. They take a winding route through the open air structures, their view obscured, until a little way in the distance, Harold sees him. John is lying in a spreading pool of blood.

Bear charges ahead with such force that Harold lets the leash fall from his hand. His own legs carry him forward more slowly. Harold’s eyes are dry but his voice is gone. He can’t even make John’s name form in his mouth. He doesn’t want to say it for the last time.

Bear barks, licking John’s face, and he stirs, one hand lifting to bat him away. Harold inhales a big breath, and shrugs out of his jacket. The next few steps come easier then, skirting the edge of the red puddle to kneel behind John’s head, his back to the water.

Bear has circled ahead of Harold. He puts his paw on John’s right ankle, whines with much distress, then turns around and sprints off the way they came. Harold doesn’t have the wherewithal to call after him. He’s pressing carefully on the wound in John’s left side with his scrunched up jacket.

John groans, lifts his head off the ground. His eyes blink blearily open. Upside down, Harold meets his gaze.

“Hey. You’re here.” John’s eyes contain a starry gleam which says loud and clear that Harold is his favorite person in the world.

Harold cannot let his heart soften at that look, or he’ll go to pieces. He focuses on his anger instead. It’s enough to dislodge his temporary block on speech. “You should have called me.”

“I was laying low. Whole city’s after me, y’know?” He tries to laugh, and his upper body quakes with a suppressed cough.

It may not be the correct thing to do, medically, but Harold cannot watch him shudder without helping him to sit up a little, rest his head in his lap.

John’s right arm is reaching up, hand finding Harold’s cheek, except he hovers as close as he dares without actually touching. He seems to find this strangely funny. “I don’t wanna get blood on you.” His fingers are red from trying to stem the flow.

Harold guides his hand back down. “A little late for that.” His knees are starting to get warm with creeping liquid.

John satisfies himself with gripping Harold’s sleeve instead. He uses it to pull himself up a little more, so that Harold’s elbows rest on his shoulders, both hands still trying to put pressure on the source of all this mess.

John sighs. There’s blood on his teeth, too. “At least I get to die in your arms.” He comments, in a philosophical tone.

“You’re not dying.” Harold protests, against all evidence to the contrary. “Why aren’t you wearing your vest?”

With his free hand, John moves his shirt, enabling Harold to see the thin layer of armor beneath. “I am. Ballistic won’t stop a blade at close range.” His brow knits together. “I haven’t…taught you enough.”

Before Harold can experience the full sting of John’s regret, he tenses up for a different reason. He can hear a vehicle approaching. Peering into the distance, he discovers it’s an ambulance.

Moments later, Bear is back with them, racing ahead, showing the driver where to go.

It pulls up less than twenty meters from them and Shaw climbs out of the driver’s side. “These things are way too easy to steal.”

—

Reese falls unconscious when they get him into the ambulance. Harold drives, Bear in the passenger seat, while Shaw stays with Reese in the back, working on stabilizing his condition.

They can’t take him to hospital. If those loyal to HR didn’t take the opportunity to kill him, the FBI would arrest the Man in the Suit, and Harold might never see him again. They go to the safehouse instead.

John is very pale and sweating by the time they wheel him into the elevator, and Harold is reminded of the parking structure, two years ago now, when Carter let him save John from the CIA. That moment was the start of her beginning to trust them. John survived then, and he’ll survive today, Harold tells himself, laying a hand on John’s shoulder, as though to cement an unspoken deal.

“What the hell?” Shaw wonders, when the doors open and she wheels John’s ambulance gurney out. The corridor leading to the penthouse is packed with boxes, all containing medical equipment and supplies. They can’t take John to the hospital, so the hospital has come to them. There’s even a bed, the kind with sides that can be raised or lowered. “Where did all this come from?”

Harold looks up at the hidden camera in the elevator. “I suspect the Machine was involved.” He makes a mental note to check the footage later. Arrange for every one of those delivery people to receive a winning lottery ticket or scratch card in the mail.

They get John and the packages inside. Harold has a moment of trepidation when he realizes they’ll need to get the new bed down the steps into the apartment, but Ms. Shaw is very strong. She lifts the foot of the bed and carries it down, and Harold only has to push from the head.

Harold is rearranging some furniture, to make room for the bed in the far corner, when there’s a knock on the door. He hurries to answer it and two familiar faces greet him. Relief slightly weakening his legs, Harold leans his side against the edge of the door. “Thank you both for coming.”

He calls into the apartment. “Ms. Shaw, meet Drs. Madeleine Enright and Megan Tillman.” Harold shakes their hands as they enter. They both offer sympathetic smiles.

Shaw looks up from Reese’s side. “Oh good, come in. He’s lost at least a pint of blood. He went into hypovolemic shock twenty minutes ago.”

The surgeon and doctor remove their coats and leap smoothly into action. Harold closes the door and rests against the railing by the coat rack until his knees remember how to hold him up. He comes to stand a little way off while they move efficiently around John, who remains unconscious. Harold should have…said something, back when he found him. Something more. But John has his own way of saying almost too much.

Despite all the help they’ve already received, despite reminding himself that John has endured and recovered in the past…Harold still can’t be sure. If he asked the Machine now, what probability of survival would it give him?

Shaw is busy unpacking boxes and setting everything in plain sight for the others.

Tillman takes John’s pulse. “I’ll start getting a second line in. Looks like hemothorax.”

Leaning her ear close and tapping on his chest, Maddie states confidently: “Agreed.”

Megan squeezes John’s fingers as she administers saline. “His hands are too cold. We need to improve his circulation. Help me raise his legs?”

Harold steps forward but Shaw is faster, lifting John’s knees. It’s only because the light catches it that Harold notices the darker patch against the black of John’s suit, the hole in the fabric.

Harold gasps. “What’s that? On his thigh.”

Shaw inspects the back of his left leg and huffs. “Bullet wound. Has he had that all night? Christ’s sake, Reese.”

Harold’s stomach ties itself into even tighter knots. He took on Simmons when already weakened? If he’d been bleeding since the early hours of the morning…no wonder John had been so sure he was dying.

Maddie continues, thinking out loud: “Between second and third rib…it’s likely his pulmonary artery. His heart’s still beating so it’s not been severed, just nicked. I can do a lateral suture but we’ll need to open him up.” Megan makes a bee line for a box containing bottles of iodine, while Maddie gives Shaw a significant look. Their gazes both dart over at Harold, and he straightens. He’s feeling a bit dizzy but he’ll help if he’s needed. He helped Dr. Enright once before. Although the thought of seeing _John’s_ heart is…

Shaw gives John’s legs to Maddie and goes to Harold. “You shouldn’t be watching this. Go get cleaned up. You keep a spare suit here, yeah?”

A stubborn part of Harold protests. _I want to stay. I promised him always._ But he can’t say that. “Yes. Thank you.” He lets Sameen start to shepherd him toward the bathroom.

“It’s a good prognosis, Harold,” Megan says.

He can only manage a nod in response, tears rising in the back of his throat.

He closes the door and stands there blankly. Everything is quite surreal. He looks down at himself. The knees of his pants are stuck to his skin, and John has left a hand-print on his sleeve. His tie has blood on it too.

There’s a brisk knock on the door. Shaw hangs up his spare garment bag on the inside hook, sets a bottled water next to the sink, then leaves again. Harold locks the door. Facing the mirror reveals there are smudges on his face. The man staring back at him is wrung out, spaced out. Harold washes his hands with plenty of soap, the water turning pink, then clear. He’s patting them dry when his strength finally runs out. His knees do go this time, there’s no stopping them. He catches his back against the wall and slides down it, eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched. He doesn’t make a sound, but he shakes with sobs. 

It’s cathartic. The tense worry of the long night, and the agony of holding John while he resigned himself to dying, it all has to go somewhere. Releasing this pent-up emotion calms him down, helps him to think more clearly.

John is the most infuriatingly selfless person Harold has ever known, but right now, he’s also very fortunate. The Machine is doing everything it can to look after him, and he has three of the best medical minds in the country working on him. In addition, John’s plan succeeded: Carter is safe. Harold looks forward to telling John this, when he wakes up.

After using his handkerchief to dry his eyes and blow his nose, Harold steels himself to get to his feet. As he does, his phone slips out of his pocket. Unlocking it reveals the map he was using earlier, the tracking dot no longer visible. Harold winces and swipes to close the app. His camera roll appears. That’s better. It might be too late, Simmons could already have fled, but Harold sends the photo of the numberplate to Detective Fusco anyway. He’ll find a use for it.

Time for that shower. Harold removes his earpiece and gets out of his ruined suit. He stands under the hot water until his fingertips look like prunes.

—

The doctors inform him that everything went well. They do have to hurry back to their real jobs, so they can’t stay long, but before leaving, the four of them lift John safely into the hospital bed. Chest bandages hidden beneath a fresh t-shirt, Reese appears closer to comfortable.

Harold is concerned that his skin is still very pale, but Shaw informs him it’ll take two to three hours for the transfusion to be complete.

“He lost a lot of blood. I’m gonna go steal some more from Manhattan General. For next time.”

Harold glances up at her, in the middle of bending over to tuck in sheets more neatly around John’s feet. He really wants to pull them up higher than John’s waist, but the various tubes won’t allow for that. “Please don’t mention a next time already.”

“I’m kidding. It would expire anyway. Unless he’s thinking about doing this again in the next few days.”

“I’ll cuff him to the bed before I’d let that happen.” He retorts, without thinking.

“Kinky, Harold.” Shaw grins.

Harold briefly closes his eyes and huffs, sitting down in a chair at John’s bedside. At this point, Bear makes his way over, carefully resting his head on John’s left wrist. Between them, they’re effectively holding both of John’s hands. No need for more extreme measures.

“He saved my life earlier, you know.”

“Who, John?”

“Bear. He pushed me out of the path of oncoming traffic. I froze when I heard…” He trails off, not wanting to relive it.

Shaw uses her special happy only-for-Bear voice. “Well, somebody’s getting the extra good treats.”

Bear doesn’t react, too intent on being with John right now.

Shaw isn’t fazed. “Later, then.”

Harold goes back to fiddling with the blankets, very carefully lifting John’s hand. If he can at least get one of them underneath…and Bear will keep the other warm. Task accomplished, Harold sets his own hand back on top.

He’s not afraid to hold John’s hand in front of Shaw, now.

She’s shoving empty boxes into a corner when her phone rings. She puts it on loudspeaker, perhaps expecting Fusco, so Harold clearly hears: _“Hey, sweetie.”_

Ah. He hasn’t got around to mentioning that yet.

“Root!? How the -”

Root says, _“Ask Harold,”_ at the same time that Harold begins: “I made a tactical decision.”

Shaw puts one hand on her hip. “You let her out?” She’s fairly indignant, and her volume is increasing.

Harold gets to his feet, waving his hands in a ‘quieten down’ gesture. “Shall we take this into the kitchen. Mr. Reese needs his rest.” Shaw follows him down the hall, and he shuts the door behind them.

Through the phone, Root asks: _“How is he?”_

Shaw gives a succinct summary, sliding the phone onto a countertop and bracing herself against that. “He’ll live.”

“Not exactly _unharmed_ ,” Harold says, more sharply.

“ _Feci ego faxim,_ ” Root replies. _I did my best,_ in Latin. Harold recalls a stack of Latin texts on her table in the library with amusement.

Shaw is evidently bewildered and that makes her more annoyed. “What is it with you two? Are you enemies, are you friends, do you just like to talk in riddles?”

 _“All of the above.”_ Root answers.

“I got the impression you were in favor of letting her go, Ms. Shaw.”

Her eyes widen. “Not unsupervised! I thought you’d give her a phone, have her point at a map, then lock her back up again.”

 _“Shaw, did you put in a good word for me? I’m touched. You’re very welcome to come supervise me now.”_ Root’s overtly flirtatious tone plus Sameen’s increasingly flustered reactions…Harold is starting to suspect he and John aren’t the only budding couple in their social circle.

Sameen’s jaw tightens, her face contorting oddly as she shoves her tongue into the inside of her lower lip. “Why, where are you?” She looks like she hates herself for asking.

Root switches to her more serious voice. _“I’m about to go undercover at Decima Technologies. I could use someone nearby, just in case.”_

Shaw defers to Harold, who nods.

“I’m on my way.” She ends the call, taking the phone with her. Harold follows a few paces behind as she makes her way toward the coat rack.

“Will you fill me in, later?”

Shaw shrugs into her coat. “Yeah, when I have a clue. She might not know much about the big picture yet, herself.” Her gaze drifts to the foot of John’s bed, just visible from where they are standing. “Actually. Before I go, let me show you something.”

Harold walks with her, back to John’s side. Shaw strokes Bear with one hand and points with the other at a corner of one of the monitors which are arranged by the bed. “This is his oxygen saturation. If it falls below ninety-two percent, put the mask back on for him, then reassess in half an hour. If it falls below eighty, call Megan.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep an eye on it.” He retakes his seat, starting to stroke the soft covers again.

Shaw hesitates, then says awkwardly, “Hang in there. He’ll be fine.”

Appreciating her genuine attempt to comfort him, Harold offers her a real smile and nod. “Good luck with your new mission.”

She makes a face. “I’m only on standby.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

She turns and walks away, but not before Harold glimpses her smirk.

The door closing behind her, Harold rests his elbows on the bed, gazing at John’s sleeping face. He can hardly believe now, that he has spent years looking at John on a daily basis without ever really seeing how beautiful he is.

Harold has known since the start that John is irreplaceable. He didn’t - as Root put it - ‘go through many guys’ in the beginning without good reasons. It’s one thing to acknowledge that he would stop working the Numbers without Reese as his partner. It’s another to know that his world would collapse without John in it. He confronted that today. When he recovers, Harold doesn’t know how he’ll have the courage to send John out in the field again, knowing this.

Which reminds him. John will need a new and improved vest. He must do some more research, and look into getting one for Bear too. They deserve the best that exists, or Harold will make it exist. They’re his family. Carter was right.

He swallows as another wave of feeling washes over him. He’s exhausted, but very determined. He won’t run away this time.

Harold stands up and leans over the bed, careful not to touch any of the wires. He brings his mouth close to John’s ear and whispers “I love you,” brushing a kiss against his cheek as he pulls back. Saying it out loud soothes the guilty ache which lodged in his chest this morning when he knelt in John’s blood and said nothing. Having said it once, maybe soon he’ll be able to say it a second time, when John is awake to hear it.

That settled, he slumps back in the chair and tries to think about what Root could be up to. Decima Technologies, owned by Mr. Greer. The orchestrator of the virus uploaded by Stanton to reboot the Machine. Is Root there to spy, steal or disrupt? Or something more drastic which is likely to require a hasty exit? Whatever it is, Ms. Shaw will take care of her. That’s a strangely reassuring thought…

Harold is asleep before he knows it.

He dreams about John, of course. Just walking together, walking Bear, watching him run around fields which in the dream stretch on as far as the horizon. John wraps an arm around his back, and then they’re turning, and Harold is meant to pull his wrist out of John’s grasp, because they’re training. He pushes forward instead, shoving at John until he stumbles, and then he sees the loft floor is slippery with blood…

In the real world, Harold trembles at that, lips shivering.

…the library corridors are warm and dusty. John throws a tennis ball for Bear. It bounces off a wall at an odd angle, heading straight for Harold, who catches it. And then the ball isn’t a ball but a knife which Harold throws and shatters the glass board, just one Number on it, one face, an officer who has never wanted to uphold the law.

Harold startles awake. He’s alarmed at the dark turn of his subconscious, but then again, it has been a distressing day. His hopes and worst fears all tangled into one. He turns himself in the chair to look out of the window behind him, yawning so hard his eyes water. It’s fully dark outside now. Eight thirty. He should eat something, and check on the others. Mostly he wants to sleep like a log, so that his mind stops spinning out of control.

There’s a subtle noise, Bear snuffling to himself, or so Harold assumes. His canine friend has had an eventful time of it as well, traipsing all over the city with Harold and then having to witness…what happened. He hopes Bear won’t become depressed again. The only thing that worked last time was John spending a few days with him, just the two of them. He doubts Reese will be up to running and playing for a while yet.

The noise happens again, an intake of breath, a slight cough and groan that is distinctly human. He grips the back of the chair and very slowly turns to face the bed.

When he sees John smiling tiredly back at him, Harold voices a wobbly “Oh,” and his heart is a riot of strong emotions.

John starts to look distressed. Harold quickly examines the monitors, in case it’s a medical issue and he needs to call for help, but a moment later it becomes apparent that the reason is himself.

“Please don’t cry,” John says, hoarsely. “Please, don’t.”

Harold swipes under his own eyes, abashed. He’s concerned that John might struggle to sit up, to reach for him, so he’s quick to take John’s hand, placing it against his cheek. “I’m sorry, it’s alright. It’s only that…I’m inordinately happy to see you’re awake.” He leans somewhat greedily into the touch of John’s palm, conscious of _needing_ this, with a force quite unlike anything else.

John strokes his thumb in a tiny arc. “Sorry I scared you.”

They stay like this for a few blissful minutes, until Harold has gathered enough composure to set John’s arm back on the bed.

He scoots his chair as close as it can safely go. “How are you feeling?”

John breathes cautiously, taking stock. “Chest feels… weird, but it’s distant.”

“Uncomfortable rather than painful,” Harold offers.

“Exactly.”

“And your leg?”

Bear chooses this moment to put his front paws on the bed and try to jump.

Harold gestures for him to stay on the floor. “Bear! Careful.”

John seems to be remembering. “He was with you before. He ran off to get me some help.” He awkwardly but enthusiastically rubs his knuckles into the top of Bear’s head, hampered as he is by the sensor clamped to his first two fingers. “Clever boy!” John tells him, and Bear licks his forearm, whuffling happily. “What day is it?”

“The same. It’s been a long one.”

He brings John up to speed on mostly everything he’s missed. Quinn in FBI custody, Carter leaving New York, forced to quit the city she just saved. The Machine working quickly to provide for them, sending Shaw and the two doctors to save him. He deliberately doesn’t mention freeing Root or what HR did to Fusco and his son, not wanting to upset John at the moment. John will probably object to this when he finds out later, but for now it’s worth it.

He drifts back to sleep while Harold talks. Bear curls up on the floor again, so Harold rises stiffly to pick up his pet bed from the next room and set it down close by, turning on enough soft lighting to make his way around without disturbing John.

He grabs a throw blanket off the couch for himself, wraps it around his shoulders and goes back to napping in the chair, waking for a second time when his phone rings.

Harold frowns at the screen, suddenly alert.

It’s Fusco. He sounds stressed. _“I tried Shaw, but she’s not picking up. Do you know where she is?”_

Harold stands up with a grimace, keeping to just above a whisper. “She’s unavailable right now. Can I help?”

_“Dunno. I, uh. I found Simmons.”_

Harold moves as fast as he can across the apartment. “Where are you? Are you hurt?” He brings up a map on his phone as he listens.

 _“I caught up to him at Tormuller Airport. I’m a bit banged up.”_ A long pause. _“He’s dead.”_

Harold almost snarls _good_. “How…?”

“We tussled. I got the best of him. Punched him until I broke his arm. And his neck.”

Harold only raises his eyebrows and comments: “Your fingerprints…”

_“Yeah, I know. My blood’s on him too. My nose is bleeding. Shit, I shouldn’t be telling you. You gotta scrub this call from the tower records, okay? I’m not taking you down with me.”_

“Lionel. There are some dense woods about ten minutes north of you. I have a shovel. I’ll be with you shortly.”

_“But…”_

Harold grabs his coat and the key for a spare car. “Get the body out of plain sight, if you can. Trust me, Detective.”

He does hesitate for half a second at the door, not wanting to leave John alone, but Fusco needs help urgently. Bear will have to be company enough.

—

Lionel is crouching behind his car at the airfield when Harold pulls up. He has to quietly say his name before the other man emerges, understandably nervous of running into anyone other than Finch.

Fusco has a large red bruise on his right temple, drying blood smeared across his face. His entire left hand is heavily bandaged.

At first, Harold hands over his own clean handkerchief. Realizing this is not going to do the job, he takes a whole box of tissues from the glove compartment.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here.” Fusco says, muffled from holding things under his dripping nose.

Harold points out, reluctantly but firmly: “Ms. Shaw mentioned you were tortured. This process will move more quickly if you have someone to help you who isn’t compensating for broken fingers.”

He accepts this, while Harold circles around to the back of his car.

“You didn’t put him in your own trunk.”

Fusco inclines his head in the general direction. “I dragged him into the aircraft hanger.”

“Well done. First things first, you stop that nosebleed while I clean up the evidence. Show me where it happened?” As he speaks, Harold retrieves some necessary items from his trunk. Cleaning supplies and a small portable UV lamp. The blue light is to get any spots of blood off the concrete. Fusco walks him over.

This task complete, Harold traces the light along the path Fusco took to drag the body into the hanger, picking up anything which stands out.

In a corner, there’s a badly wrapped bundle. The metal panels shake near Harold’s head as he leans down. It’s not raining, but the wind whistles through the structure at an alarming rate.

A few tugs of some fraying rope, and Harold finds himself looking at a dead body. It’s hardly the first time since Dillinger, but the circumstances have never been so similar. At least his leg is stronger than it was back then.

Lionel stands several meters behind him. He’s gone and stuffed bits of tissue up his nostrils, solving the nosebleed problem.

“Can you think of everywhere your prints or DNA are likely to be?”

Fusco lists them, and Harold gingerly wipes them away, while wearing leather gloves himself. When he’s finished, he goes back to the car and reverses it through the hanger doors. When he gets out, he opens the trunk again and hands Fusco a second pair of gloves. Unfortunately, they turn out to be too small for his larger hands.

“Those won’t fit my good hand, let alone this big bandaged stump,” Fusco says, holding up his broken left hand.

There’s an awkward, nervous pause as Harold turns back to the car, surveying its contents. “Oh! I know. Try these.” He pulls out a pair of thick welding gloves, with long flared white cuffs. “You should be able to get your wrist in that without needing to use the fingers.”

Lionel looks at them doubtfully. “These don’t have traces of oil on them, do they?”

Harold takes a mock-offended tone. “What do you take me for? They’re brand new. Well, I bought them two years ago. Never been used for their intended purpose.”

Harold moves the rest of his supplies into the back seat and removes the false bottom from the trunk to give them more room. After that, it’s time to lift Simmons into the car.

They each take an end and Harold counts them in: “One, two, three.” Surprisingly, it works first time.

“Shaw can carry them over her shoulder.” Fusco comments, shutting the body out of sight.

“I’m very sorry that I’m not as strong as Ms. Shaw.” Harold says, blithely. It’s very odd, by this point he’s likely beyond exhaustion and into slight hysteria, so he’s feeling almost buoyant.

He gets into the car, only to find that Fusco has wandered off. He returns a minute later, carrying a broom, which Harold waves for him to put across the seats behind them.

“Yes, throw that in. Much better than stamping the earth down with our shoes.”

Finally both in the car, Harold starts the engine.

“Why do you know so much about this?” Lionel asks, as he puts on his seatbelt, one-handed.

“I’ve faked my own death more than once. Besides…You have to be, for your job, but I’m not on any database.”

“So you…keep a pre-stocked vehicle…in case you happen to…”

“Contingency planning.” Harold says, driving them decisively away from the crime scene.

“Sometimes I wonder why Mr. Scary hangs around with you. Then there’s times like this, and I get it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Fusco is quiet for the rest of the drive. Harold doesn’t try to talk. They both have a lot to think about.

When they arrive, they choose a secluded spot with minimal foot traffic and mark out the dimensions.

Once the grave is a couple of inches deep, Harold pauses to catch his breath and asks: “Had you been following him all day?”

“I was with Lee until you sent me that photo. He’s in a bad way, Finch. He had to listen to his old man saying goodbye and then he saw Shaw kill the guy holding a gun to his head. And then he didn’t know whether I’d made it, until I called Shaw back.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He’s with his mom right now. The worst part is, he knows he has to keep it secret from her, or she’ll never let him see me again. Thirteen-year old boy, learning to lie and suppress shit like that. So I know it ruins everything Carter’s worked for, keeping it all legal. But I’ll sleep a lot better now that this sonuvabitch is gone from the world.”

“I understand. It’s the same with me and John.” He starts digging again.

“Wait. What do you mean by that? What did Simmons do to John?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Harold had assumed Shaw would have said something. “Without _telling_ me,” Harold fumes, taking his anger out on a particularly stubborn clump of clay, “Mr. Reese lured Simmons out by the river and they had a confrontation. Simmons managed to stab him in the heart. I got there just in time to take that picture as he drove away.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s stable now, Ms. Shaw was a great help with that. But John was convinced he was going to die today. I did a very poor job of reassuring him.”

“Now I’m even more glad I did it.”

“I realize it won’t absolve your guilt, Lionel, but thank you.”

Fusco’s quiet for a few minutes, then adds, with an edge of satisfaction: “Simmons was breathing down my neck for years, and I took it. Trying to be a better man. He’s verbally threatened Lee before but never followed through, because I always caved. Not this time.”

Once the hole is deep enough, Lionel helps Harold to climb out, as his balance is slightly off.

They keep their flashlight beams as concealed as possible, so as not to attract attention. Using the car headlights would be too risky. They tip Simmons in and set to work covering him up. It’s another half hour’s work, their breaths misting in the cold air, Harold sweating in his winter coat.

When they’re done, Fusco says slowly: “So, when you think about it…Wonderboy lost to the dead guy. And I beat Simmons…so in theory, that means I could beat Reese. Good news for me.”

Harold tightens his mouth, trying to suppress a smile. John would likely wish Harold to defend his fighting ability. “I believe there was some cheating involved.” He doesn’t mention John had been bleeding from his leg wound all night, though it is likely to have been a factor.

Fusco grins back. “Whatever you say, Glasses.”

Harold drives back onto the road, Lionel sweeping away their tire tracks with the broom. They make sure to leave the site as untouched as they can.

They have to return to the airfield so that Fusco can pick up his own car and drive it back into the city. On the way, they work out a cover story for where the Detective has been all day, in case anyone at the station asks.

By the time they part ways, Harold is under the bemused impression this morbid experience has made the two of them better friends.

—

Halfway back to the safehouse, Harold allows himself to be worried about Shaw, and gives her a call.

The call connects, but it’s not Shaw who picks up.

 _“Why are you still awake?”_ Root says, a deliberate playful echo of her question in the library, just over twenty-four hours before. Goodness, what a day.

“Why are you answering Sameen’s phone? Did something happen?”

_“Don’t worry, Harold, I only eavesdropped on a meeting. I wasn’t sure what I would have to do, so I covered my bases. Shaw’s sleeping, I tired her out a little. We’re at her place.”_

Harold ignores all of this personal information and focuses on the important part. “What happened at this meeting?”

_“Greer instructed a Decima employee to pose as a bank manager, to get inside a vault.”_

“What does that mean?” There’s a pause. “Root?”

After all her irritating cheer, Root’s sad voice is even more worrying. _“Do you remember Arthur Claypool?”_

Shocked, Harold forces himself to concentrate on the road. “I haven’t heard that name in years.”

_“I’m very sorry, Harold, he died yesterday in hospital. Natural causes. He had a tumor. Unfortunately, his last words were, ‘Samaritan. I made a backup.’”_

Arthur…made an AI? He’d been giddy about the possibility in first year, but by the second he’d wandered off into theoretical physics electives, or so Harold and Nathan had both thought. “Samaritan? I’ve heard that name before.”

_“The Machine identified it as a competing system. Officially, it was shut down in 2005.”_

Harold’s heart sinks. “…And now Greer wants it.”

_“Shaw and I are going to stop him.”_

Her confidence is…astounding, and certainly reckless. “Are you going to tell me how?”

_“You let me worry about that. Spend some time with John.”_

“Root. You can’t simply-!”

_“Harold, the Machine protects us. I will protect Her, and therefore you. You’re always telling Reese and Shaw that the Machine is never wrong. So let me do this?”_

Arthur had died when Harold hadn’t spoken to him for twenty-three years? He’s having difficulty comprehending all of this.

Eventually Root prompts him, _“Harold?”_

“Yes, fine. But please be careful. Both of you.”

_“We will. Get some rest.”_

Harold isn’t especially conscious of driving the rest of the way home, too lost in recollections.

He re-parks the car amongst a hundred others in a nearby structure and makes his way into the apartment’s elevator. A few minutes later, he closes the door as quietly as possible and leaves his coat and muddy shoes just inside it. The lights are still on, John hasn’t wandered off to look for him. Harold realizes John hasn’t even tried to call him, then remembers he hasn’t given him a new phone yet. Is it too much to hope he slept through the whole thing?

Apparently, yes. John’s watching Harold sleepily when he crosses the apartment. “Hi. Where did you go?”

“Lionel needed my assistance.”

“New Number?”

“No, nothing like that. Are you comfortable, can I bring you anything?”

“Just you.” He pats the bed and Harold sinks back into his chair beside it. It’s remarkably easy to simply be glad to see him and forget everything else.

“Not all the way over there? Come on here with me.”

Harold might blush if he had the energy for embarrassment. He looks at the bed doubtfully. “There isn’t room. I don’t want to pull out your lines and things.”

John scoots over. “You’ll be careful. If you stay there all night, your neck won’t thank you.”

Harold is about to fall asleep sitting upright. Lying down is too tempting. He doesn’t argue any further, resting his head on John’s shoulder, who immediately wraps his right arm around Harold’s back, gathering him to his uninjured side. He buries his nose in Harold’s hair, torso expanding with a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Harold closes his eyes. They immediately glue themselves shut. He doesn’t care that his glasses are still on.

“Harold, how many bottles of wine do you have?”

It takes him a second to figure out John’s referring to the wooden rack tucked into the corner of the room, behind Harold’s head. Harold has never counted them so he doesn’t have an answer, and besides, “They’re not mine, they were Nathan’s.”

John continues in a quiet, confidential way, “While you were out, I was looking at all those and thinking. I wanna open a bottle when I’m better, get you tipsy enough to make out with me.”

Harold glows warm all the way to his toes.

“Go to sleep, John.”

—

Harold doesn’t stir until nine hours later. It’s midmorning, the lights are still on, and John is squirming.

“Sorry,” he says. “Bathroom.”

Harold rolls off the bed, sends a quick cautious text to Megan checking it’s okay for John to cautiously move around, and when she replies _Of course!_ , helps him walk there.

Harold freshens up and changes his suit in the ensuite, and as he does, everything unresolved from yesterday settles back onto his shoulders.

He tells John about Arthur first, while taping over the back of his hand where the IV needle had gone in.

They eat a simple breakfast, or brunch as it is by then, rounds of toast and tea and coffee.

He keeps expecting Reese to ask after Fusco but he doesn’t, so Harold lets it slide. He has enough to do, soothing John’s worries about Root being out of the library, even if she is with Shaw, which Harold accepts are justifiable concerns.

And as for Samaritan… Harold is leaning over John’s shoulder at the long table, reading a New York Journal article from 2005 about the program being discontinued, when Root and Shaw arrive, miraculously upbeat with success. Root bounds over and places Arthur’s backup drives very carefully in Harold’s hands.

Harold sets them on the table and takes a step back, folding his arms. “If Arthur’s…gone, how did you get into his safe deposit box?”

Shaw pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table and flops into it. “The Decima agent took his medical alert button off his body. He’d been hiding the key in it.”

“She had to try half the boxes in the vault before she found the one it fit.” Root explains, devilishly amused by this.

Shaw groans. “Even though the Machine had already told _you_ the number.”

Root leans on the back of Sameen’s chair. “I wasn’t going to help Decima lady out, was I?”

Craning her head back to glare at Root: “I meant knock her out and take the key. It would have saved us time, that’s all.” Clearly continuing a point of contention from earlier.

Reese gestures between them: “Sorry, since when are you two bickering?” He glances up at Harold, who shrugs. It's not his place to tell.

He half expects Root to take the opportunity to brag, but she doesn't seem as invested in making John uncomfortable as she is Harold. She ignores the question entirely, reaching for the drives again. "We could run it," she says, almost to herself, turning the beige-colored box around and around. "On an air-gapped computer, of course. Just to see what it looks like."

"What would that achieve?"

"Scientific curiosity? Don't you want to see how your friend did it? Turns out there's more than one way to make an AI, Harold." She winces and touches her earpiece. "Yes, I'm getting to that." Turning it off, she explains: "The Machine says we have to destroy it, before it destroys us. But I'd still like to take a look at it, before we do. See how the code compares between an open system and a closed one."

"And if it got out? Started dismantling the country's defenses? What would you do then?" While Harold sympathizes with her eagerness for research, Root reminds him of his own reckless hubris in years past. She hasn't had to learn those lessons yet, and he wouldn't want her to.

"You're assuming it'll immediately go on the attack." She presses the drive into Harold's hand again, her face lit up with hope. "This is like a little child. I know you used to speak to Her that way. And here's a second chance. This one's been stuck in a box inside a box inside a bank for years, never had a chance to breathe or stretch its wings."

Harold stiffens, but doesn't pull away. He lets Root curve his fingers around what could be Samaritan, the legacy of Arthur Claypool.

She steps back and Harold looks at it closely, trying to imagine what it could do for the world. How many Numbers it could save.

The tips of John's fingers touch his back. "Harold?"

He looks up. “Root is right.” That sentence surprises everyone, including himself. “This is a life, albeit a digital one. One my friend worked very hard to build. I understand what that entailed, better than anyone. I won’t erase his creation lightly.”

Shaw pipes up. “What happens if you get two all-seeing AIs alive on the same planet?”

“They bake a lot of cookies.” Root says, smiling at her indulgently.

Harold straightens his glasses. “War, usually. At least, that’s where the majority of science fiction written on the subject dwells. Against each other, against humanity. And then there’s the government to worry about. Particularly with an open system. Once we resurrect it there’s no telling what may happen.”

John slightly pinches the fabric of Harold's suit. “So don’t risk it.”

Root is making moves like she wants to hold the AI again, so Shaw passes her the other box from the table. “I'm with Reese. We've all got enough to deal with, chasing after warring humans.”

"What do you want to do, Harold?" Root is...not mocking him, or taunting him. She's patiently waiting for his answer, one way or another.

Harold inclines his head, inviting her to walk with him to a different corner. John's distracting hand falls away.

They go to stand over by the steps, each holding half of Samaritan's source code. Harold regards her very seriously, speaking low so the others won't overhear. "We know what the Machine wants. You told me I shouldn't disobey it, not when it's trying to keep us safe. Do you really want to do so now?"

Root looks disappointed, but not maliciously so. "You're sure."

He swallows. "I'm...very sorry that Arthur died, and that I never knew until now what he'd achieved, but I won't risk the world on his behalf. Not even for science. The Machine is smarter than you or I, it was designed that way."

Root nods. “Okay, then." She holds up her drive, ready to drop it. "Together?”

Harold says, “Do it.”

There's a crunch of shattering metal and plastic as they stamp on Samaritan simultaneously.

Later, when Root and Shaw have left them alone together, John studies Harold like he's trying to figure him out.

Harold sits down facing him. "What is it? I'm not about to grow a second head."

John shrugs, offers a wan smile. ”I'm a little worried. You’re grieving. And you seem…different.”

Harold covers John's hand with his own. "I trust the Machine. If it said we needed to kill its rival, I'm prepared to believe it did so in self-defense.”

—

John has lots of healing to do. They stay in the safehouse for the next two weeks. Dr. Tillman drops by once a day to check he's doing well. There's a lull in the Numbers so Shaw accompanies Root on her missions for the Machine. Harold has already given up asking her what exactly those entail. He sends Bear to stay with Fusco in case anyone from HR comes knocking on his door, wondering why he still has a job or where his former partner might be. And also in the hope that he might not be so alone while Lee is away.

Watching the news is…not encouraging. In custody, Alonzo Quinn has been doing all he can to deflect attention away from himself. Far from being promoted for unmasking the head of HR, Carter is shown to be corrupt in her own right, for being in collusion with the Man in the Suit. In addition to Quinn telling anyone who will listen that the vigilante shot him, the FBI are aware - partly because of the Russian truck heist incident - that they arrested the wrong man a year ago, and that Carter would have been uniquely placed to steer said investigation. It doesn’t help that a surviving photo of John Warren has been matched to the one from the cop car camera. But Harold’s code is still out there: every time a television network attempts to show the picture it becomes unaccountably blurry.

John is understandably frustrated that all Carter’s meticulous work has backfired this way. HR is still being dismantled, her evidence against its various members is incontrovertible, but she should be being lauded, not forced to become an outlaw.

And he’s even more upset when one bulletin adds, in closing: _Authorities are also searching for a possible accomplice, known only as ‘Finch’._

“I can’t believe I said your name in earshot of Quinn!” Harold watches him pace back and forth, thinking absently that his long legs are very attractive in these figure-hugging jeans. Perhaps when they go back to work, he should instate casual Fridays.

Harold had already predicted that Carter’s career was done, and he’s not particularly concerned about the FBI. They’ve managed to evade the CIA, they can do this too. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve never used that name on any written documents. There’s no trail for them to follow. And I doubt any of our Numbers will give us up.”

“Why are they even listening to a word he has to say? I should have shot him in the head, not the shoulder.” Reese continues, darkly, not having listened to him.

Harold sighs. “John. Come sit.” He pats the couch cushion beside him.

John blinks at him, but trudges over and settles down, still brooding. Harold understands that being cooped up here is taking its toll. Cautiously, he puts an arm around John, who tugs it tighter and slowly falls across Harold’s lap.

“I’ll have to call you something different in the field from now on.”

Harold smiles fondly. John’s protectiveness is sweet, though unnecessary. “Such as?” He passes his fingers through the soft graying hair at his temple, a move he has recently learned John really likes.

John’s sullen annoyance gives way to wicked playfulness. “What do you want to be? Babe? Sweetheart? Honeybun?”

Harold cringes. “None of the above, thank you.” He attempts to pinch John’s lips closed but he keeps going.

“Sir? Captain?”

Harold’s stomach does a brief swoop, but he ignores it. “‘Finch’ will be fine.”

Not too many days later, Megan is able to take John’s stitches out. He’s better, he can go home.

They’ve been trying to keep his face off the streets, but returning to the loft isn’t difficult. Harold has already been back to get rid of the posters since the anxious morning he was here.

The last time Harold fell asleep in the loft’s bed, John was all the way over on the couch. This night, they lie down in it together, John taking the side nearest the door. He’s oddly shy about it, perhaps because this is his territory rather than Harold’s. Instead of cuddling close, he curls up facing away from Harold, who stares at the back of his neck for far too long, confused. Is that a dismissal? Harold drifts to sleep before he can decide.

He wakes in the early hours of the morning to find his body has made a choice for him. He’s unconsciously shuffled right the way over on John’s half of the bed, his nose pressed against John’s back. His hand has slipped beneath John’s left arm to cover the place where his wound had been. His hips are flush at John’s backside. He realizes with a hitch of breath that he’s half hard in his underwear.

Hoping he hasn’t woken John, Harold eases himself back and away, rolling over and staring out of the windows, wide awake and on the verge of panicking.

They’d just been starting to talk about things, before the avalanche of Numbers led to…all that happened. While affection has come easily, sex is altogether different. He doesn’t know what John expects from him in that area. And besides, it seems all out of order. They haven’t even kissed. Harold recalls describing himself as old-fashioned about dating, and proceeds to worry himself into knots, the warmth of his arousal long forgotten.

Ninety minutes later, he gets dressed in the dark and sneaks out. He promised himself he wouldn’t run away this time, but a short walk to clear his head won’t do any harm.

He misses Bear’s company once he’s out on the street alone, but the cold does help him to focus. What is he prepared to do with John, when the time arrives?

Harold might be less intimidated if he hadn’t read Reese’s file. Not that it lists any details, but reading between the redacted lines, the sheer number of missions undertaken which involved some form of seduction…it speaks to a wealth of experience Harold simply doesn’t have.

He remembers with a pang that he accused John of treating him the same way as those marks. He knows now that’s so very far from the truth, but how can he admit the reason for his own insecurity without reminding John of that?

His thought process is broken by a short, sharp scream. Harold whirls around, trying to determine which direction. Someone is in trouble. There’s no ringing payphone. It’s not a Number. An opportunistic crime, and Harold’s close enough to stop it.

He hurries on and turns a corner to see a man squeezing a young woman by the throat. “Stop!”

The man is short and stocky, but strong. The girl is on tiptoes, trying to open the flap of her bag. Her assailant takes one look at Harold, sniffs derisively, and tightens his grip.

There isn’t time to do anything else. Harold staggers forward, trying to remember everything John taught him, and punches the guy in the face.

Except he doesn’t, because the man ducks at the last moment, and Harold’s fist connects with the wall behind him. Pain flares up Harold’s arm, makes him gasp in shock. Beside him, the young woman takes down her attacker with a bottle of pepper spray and a kick to the groin.

She grabs Harold’s coat sleeve. “Run!”  



	3. [John]

When John wakes up to find Harold isn’t there, he pulls shoes and coat on over his sleepwear and hurries out to the library. Along the way, he stops to interrogate a traffic camera.

“Did he go somewhere with Root?”

A phone rings. John immediately picks it up. _“No.”_ The amalgam of voices read out the library’s address. _“Meet Admin.”_

John enters the building and pokes around his desk, but there’s nothing to suggest where Harold might have been. He waits another fifteen minutes before Harold’s footsteps can be heard on the stairs.

He hasn’t finished climbing them when John calls down. “Have you been keeping Numbers from me?”

Harold looks taken aback, and then sorry. “No, John, I swear.”

John reaches into a pocket. “You left your cell at mine.” He holds it out.

Harold gets to the top of the stairs but doesn’t reach to take it. He shrugs. “I only meant to go for a short walk. I was… distracted.”

That’s when John notices Harold is holding his right arm oddly, almost hiding it behind his back. Any residual anger dissipates, into confusion and concern. He drops Harold’s phone back in his pocket and slowly makes a quarter turn on the spot, and then he can see the graze on Harold’s hand. His mouth drops open in shock.

“What happened?” He reaches for Harold’s wrist, lifting it for closer inspection with the slightest possible touch, supporting from underneath with his other hand. Stroking the side of Harold’s thumb with a finger.

Harold lets his hand rest in John’s, his mouth giving an apologetic quirk. “I may have - accidentally - punched a wall.”

It’s such an absurd thing for him to say. Harold, of all people. A quiet snort escapes John, and he leans his forehead against Harold’s temple fondly.

Harold continues to explain. “There was a girl…I later found out her name was Kayla. A man followed her out of a bar and attempted to strangle her. One of the unplanned crimes the Machine cannot detect. I tried to punch him, missed, but gave Kayla the opportunity to get free. Then I helped her make it safely home.” He sounds quite pleased with himself, and as the story unfolds, John feels proud too.

He examines the abrasions again. “First two knuckles. Nicely done, Harold.”

Harold smiles at him. “Thank you.”

Still very carefully holding Harold’s hand, John walks him over to perch on the desk while he grabs the first aid kit from a drawer. Using antiseptic wipes, John dabs away the dirt and brick dust, pursing his lips and blowing gently on the pinpricks of blood which rise behind it. He’s focusing so intently on cleaning and wrapping the hand, that he doesn’t see Harold’s face until he’s finished.

Something in John’s chest turns over at the look of determination there. The pad of Harold’s thumb catches at John’s lower lip, slow and deliberate, as he slides off the edge of the table and moves closer. John’s gaze irresistibly drops to Harold’s mouth. How many times has he imagined this? 

[[like and reblog on tumblr]](https://singingsweetyorange.tumblr.com/post/180654109578/a-few-more-sketches-inspired-by-fantastic)

Lips parted, they pause with a fraction of an inch between them, and then Harold completes the kiss. John presses into it with a flood of warmth and longing, closing his eyes and keening in the back of his throat. He has wanted this for so long. He pours all his love into the curve of Harold’s mouth, trying to make him understand, and judging by Harold’s increasingly fervent response, it seems he finally does. His fingers in the back of John’s hair, the sweet scrape of his nails pressing into John’s scalp, pulling him down.

By the time they break apart, with unsteady breaths and overawed excitement, Harold’s arms are up behind John’s shoulders, feet half-treading on John’s toes. His shoulders lift happily as John puts a steadying hand on his back. Harold rests his chin on John’s coat collar, nuzzles his cheek and nose behind John’s ear. The corner of the frame of his glasses traces its own path through John’s hair. John’s arms go around Harold properly then, hugging him close, rocking them slightly side to side.

Harold sighs. “I’m sorry it took me forever to do that.”

John laughs. A single soft burst of unconstrained joy. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“I’ve dreamed about you too,” Harold replies, in such a vulnerable, adoring tone that John’s heart melts all over again.

—

In the morning, they have a new Number. It’s a very simple one. Harold reads their Number’s Friendczar messages and Reese just has to convince Ken Craig that he’d rather not have the inheritance he's planning to kill for, and wouldn't get to keep anyway. John's updated reputation as the vigilante who takes down bent cops and persuades legit ones to work with him, all without getting caught, has only helped his street cred. Craig practically wets his pants to get Reese out of his house.

When he returns, job done, Shaw is at the library. He guesses it's to talk to Harold, since Bear isn't around.

At his desk, Harold smiles at John openly when he walks in. John feels awkward about returning it in front of Shaw, but it makes him feel warm and welcome just the same. After the kiss last night, they'd gone back to the loft and talked, then fallen asleep holding each other.

Shaw smirks at him as she walks past, on her way out. "They won't all be that easy, Reese. You better make sure you're up to par before the next time someone wants to fight you." To make her point, she pokes him in the ribs where he's still slightly sore.

Leaning away, he complains: "Hey! That was uncalled for." Not seriously. He's vainly hoping Harold will back him up and he'll get to play the card of being the one sleeping with their boss.

Instead Harold agrees with Shaw, even though she's already left. John should have known that wouldn't work. "I hate to say it, Mr. Reese, but she's right. To that end..." Harold gets out of his chair and pulls a plastic bag from a drawer. "How would you feel about restarting our sessions?" He whips out a handful of zip ties.

John has to hold back a laugh. Harold looks like the world's more adorable bondage fan. He did secure John to a bed once. Maybe they could repeat the experience...

"John, I am being serious." He lifts John's hand and places two of the zip ties in it, leaving the others on the desk.

John's amusement fades. "Oh. You - right now?"

"Yes! You've made excuses in the past. I need to know this. Root is on side now, but we'll happen across others who seek to detain me."

"Is that what Shaw was here for?" John turns to glance behind him at the empty corridor. "Message from Root?"

Harold sighs. "Yes, as it happens. But don't change the subject."

With some frustration, John persists. This is exactly on topic. He can't protect Harold if he doesn't know what's going on. "You said you'd share." John reminds him, placing one hand on Harold's shoulder. "I want you to be able to lean on me."

Harold's eyes go wide behind his glasses and the tension round his jaw slackens. He's visibly moved. He stares up at John, who watches the wheels turning as Harold decides. He begins, haltingly, "I know you don't approve of my decision to let Root go. I did so despite the pain she once caused both of us. I'm trying to keep her away from you, as much as possible. What you said last night...about my pulling away from your touch to go speak to her alone, how that hurt you...I took that to heart, John." He delivers all this in a hushed voice, and the speed of his words tumbling out lets John know one thing. Harold is really nervous.

John repositions his hand on the side of Harold's neck, stroking with his thumb, but doesn't let him off the hook. "Harold, what did Shaw need?"

Harold does lean into the touch, shaking his head a fraction. "I'm afraid you'll think less of me."

John's chest tightens. "I won't."

Harold looks off into the middle distance, as he sometimes does when the Machine is involved, steeling himself. "They've managed to capture Mr. Greer. They sought my permission to...dispose of him." He shudders on the word 'dispose', then his eyes flick back up to meet John's. "I gave it."

_We save lives._ Their mantra since the beginning of this partnership. John hasn't always adhered to it, but Harold..."I'm sure you had your reasons."

Harold frowns. He looks like he can't believe John is still here, hasn't simply turned and walked away. But even if Harold does become more like the CIA than originally planned, John is in this with him, for better or worse.

"I once told you I would do anything to protect the Machine. And the Machine has been learning. It is able to calculate outcomes much further in the future now. Run simulations. In all of those predicted futures, Greer plotted to kill it or enslave it, along with us. The odds of more direct attacks on the Machine increased when I chose to destroy the AI Greer wanted for his own. Once again, I opted not to risk it."

John breathes deep. "I understand."

"I killed him for something he hasn't done yet." He chokes up, and John pulls him in, cradling his head, which Harold presses into John's shoulder.

"I don't want you to carry stuff like this on your own." John reiterates, very softly.

Harold sniffs, tightening his hand in the back of John's coat. "I also said I need you to be my moral compass. How can you possibly still love me, when I do things like this?"

"I could ask you the same question," John says, sagely.

Harold hiccups, then falls quiet.

"This means we'll continue to get Numbers. This means the world is safe." John concludes, focusing on the bigger picture, one of the things he hasn't had to do in a while.

Eventually, disengaging from the hug, Harold wipes one path of tears with the back of his hand. John snags Harold's pocket square and dries the other side. Then he ducks down to retrieve the zip ties he dropped on the floor. He stays crouching in front of Harold, looking up at him through his lashes while he quips, "Still want me to tie you up?"

Harold's surprised laugh is a little watery. "Yes, actually. I did some research on the subject, months ago now, but didn't get to try it out."

There's that unintentional suggestiveness again. Harold hasn't lost his innocence in everything. "Okay, then." He straightens up, tucks the smooth silk square back in Harold's top pocket, and binds his wrists.

"Thank you, John." He sounds relieved. "Not for... this. For not leaving. I might have kept this secret from you if you hadn't asked me. I don’t want to mess up another relationship because I can’t stop lying.”

Now it's John's turn to be deeply touched. "I know. You're learning."

"From you." With his hands curled together, Harold rests the back of one over John's heart. "Good code."

"I...don't know what that means."

"At the train station, where you picked me up. Root said all humans are bad code, irrevocably flawed. I told her she was wrong, because there's you. They broke you, reshaped you, but you still retained a core of pure goodness. The likes of Stanton or Snow never managed that. You’re unique."

John can only stare, blinking back tears, overwhelmed by Harold’s undeserved belief in him. "Harold. That's... a lot to say about a friend. That was before you even asked me for lessons?"

Harold grimaces. "I've been terribly oblivious, in hindsight."

John grabs his lapels and kisses him. Harold lifts his bound hands to cup John’s face, and the long plastic tail of the zip tie pokes him in the chin. Forcibly reminded, John chuckles. “Right, right, we should...” He bends the stupid thing out of the way and goes back for more, because he can. Because Harold is pretty damn special in his own right.

He deserves all the protection John can possibly give him.

“Okay.” John calms himself with an effort, focusing on Harold’s hands. “Can you work your way out of these? It’s easiest if you get your thumb out first.” John tests the give on the loop, he didn’t pull it too tight.

Harold twists his hands together, curling and uncurling his fingers. As he does, John realizes that Harold’s scraped raw knuckles from last night will really hurt if he tries to slide them past the plastic. But luckily his thumb does wriggle out, hook over and drag, and then he can shake it off without pulling.

John grabs another off the desk. “Let me show you how to make that even easier. Soon as you realize they’re gonna make you wear these, you can choose how to present your hands, to rig the situation in your favor. You gave your hands to me with one inside the other and your thumbs on top. What you can do instead…” John gives the zip tie to Harold to put on him, squeezing his fists together with the palms facing down. “Tighten it a bit more.”

Harold does as he asks, and then John says, “Again.”

“John! I’m not looking to cut off your circulation.”

John shakes his head, smiling reassuringly. “Don’t worry, you won’t.” He doesn’t mind if his wrists get a little red. He tests them, flexing his wrists in an outward motion. “Okay, that’s good enough.” He may be putting on a bit of a performance for Harold’s benefit. It feels good that he can use his knowledge this way.

In a smooth movement, he unclenches his fists and rotates them inward, so the backs of his hands touch. Then he rolls his wrists over, in toward his chest, and up. The zip tie falls off him with no effort at all. He waggles his fingers, like a magic trick.

“What?!” Harold says, drawing out the ‘a’ in astonishment. “How did you…?”

“Think about it. Your wrists side by side need a bigger loop to tie up than when they’re back to back. You’re just giving yourself more space from the start.”

“That’s…” Harold seems to be searching for the right word.

“The kind of thing you learn in my line of work.” John finishes the sentence for him. He makes fists again, crosses them over, so the inside of one wrist touches the back of the other. “This is even better. And it works behind your back as well. The bigger you can make that loop, the easier it’ll be to escape when you get the chance.”

“Let’s make it harder.” He winds another one loosely around Harold’s wrists, who puts them together palms down this time. Then John takes a second tie, threads it through the loop of the first, so that the ties are hooked into each other as well. He tightens them both to a reasonable extent. “In case you can’t wiggle free, do you want to try the breaking method?”

Harold knows what he’s talking about. “Oh, that’s the one where you…” He starts to raise his hands. “I’m thinking that movement may hurt my back. Better than being tortured, though.”

John does not want to even put Harold and torture in the same sentence. “Get your teeth around one of these tail ends and try to drag the locking part so it lines up with the center of your body. You’re putting the weakest part of the zip tie closer to the strongest part of you.”

Harold does as John describes, not very successfully. He spits out the foul-tasting plastic like Bear does when he accidentally finds something that’s inedible. “All I’m doing is tightening it.”

“That’s good. The tighter they are, the easier to break.”

He steps to the side and takes Harold’s elbow, lifting his arms above his head. “You might wanna bend forward a little, that’ll put less stress on your neck.” His other hand settles in the middle of Harold’s back. “You’re trying to squeeze your shoulder blades together.” John feels them move against his palm. His mouth goes a little dry. John wants to feel that happen again with fewer layers.

“When you swing your arms down, please don’t punch yourself in the sternum, okay? You wanna use your chest as a wedge to drive your wrists apart. Ready?”

Harold looks very uncertain and uncomfortable, but John would rather he practice this than not, even if it hurts. “I suppose.”

John lets go of his elbow and steps back. “Go.”

A swift jerk of movement and both zip ties clatter to the floor. “That actually worked.”

“My very own Harold Houdini,” John says.

Finch narrows his eyes at him. He really doesn’t like nicknames.

“And if I don’t have space to swing my arms around? What else can I do?”

“You could always try picking the lock?”

“Oh yes. I thought I might use a cuff link for that.”

“Good idea. Show me.”

Harold palms one of his cuff links, clenches a fist around it, and John tightens another zip tie for him. Harold has some trouble getting the lock to where he can reach it, but once he does, he just has to prise the tiny bit of plastic away from the groove it is slotted into. Then the loop slides open. “I think that’s my favorite method. Involves a minimum of noise and movement.”

“Yeah, it suits you. Feeling better now?” John pulls him close again.

“I do. Any other wisdom to impart?” Harold’s hands settle on John’s waist, and maybe this is what he sounds like when he’s flirting.

John deliberately misunderstands him. “Let’s see. If you’re captive somewhere with exposed brick walls you can use a convex corner or column to saw through duct tape? And if you can’t get friction that way, because you’re stuck in a chair or something, there’s this fancy stuff you can carry around called kevlar cord -”

“Adding it to the shopping list,” Harold says, indulgently.

— 

It makes a surprising amount of sense to wake up in the morning and ask Harold to help him work out. Shaw is right. Reese does need to get back in shape. And with Finch here, he can come up with new ways to reward himself.

He starts with push-ups and then turns over to do sit-ups. "Will you hold my feet?"

Harold is watching him from the dining table while he eats his breakfast, his own toes bare. John still can't believe he gets to see Harold in pajamas now. He hasn't seen him out of them, yet.

Harold chews quietly for a little while, then stands up and joins John on the mat. He kneels either side of John's ankles and presses down on the tops of his sneakers. Reese could easily do these without an anchor, but it's more fun this way.

When he gets to the top of a curl, he holds it there, feeling his abs working, and brings their noses into alignment, until Harold gets the message and kisses him. Victorious, John falls back again.

Harold rolls his eyes. "Are you going to do that every time?"

He steals another kiss. "Yep. How many do you want? Three hundred?"

"Now you're being silly."

"I'm not! I could do this all day."

Harold lets go of his feet. "Please don't." He shifts onto his good hip, stretches out his legs and props himself up with a hand, sliding away to give him space.

John shrugs. Worth a try.

Harold does help him count, after he starts to sweat and his head goes fuzzy. He really has been lying around for too long. He's got a bit of form to recover. After two-fifty, he slumps on his back, breathing hard, right hand covering his left side. He's not actually in pain, but it's slightly uncomfortable. He's not doing too badly, considering his lung and everything.

"That's enough, now." Harold says, firmly.

John lifts his head. "Do you just like to watch?" Never too exhausted to flirt with Harold.

"Very much." Harold surprises him. "But since you mention it..." He checks his watch. "It's still early. The Machine hasn't contacted us. If you agree to teach me, I'll get changed."

John rubs the sweat from his neck. "Okay."

Harold gets to his feet, grabs his workout clothes from his overnight bag, and disappears into the bathroom. John makes a mental note to sort out some closet space for him. One without a weapons stash. Then he rolls onto his side to catch his breath.

Harold has already proven he's willing to use what John has taught him in real situations, even if he kinda fails. He just needs more practice. And John doesn't have to worry about hiding his feelings anymore.

"This isn't going to be very pleasant, but I'd like to know how to break out of a headlock," Harold announces, when he returns, in his shorts and t-shirt, training shoes on.

John is off the floor and sitting on the end of the bed. "That's a broad category, Harold," he says, mentally flipping through fighting styles, deciding which one might be most suited to Harold's level.

Harold steps onto the mat. "Oh. I was sure you were going to refuse. I've got at least five arguments prepared to persuade you."

John waves a hand. "Forget them. I won't let someone really hurt you because I was too squeamish to put my arm around your neck."

"I'm glad you see it that way." He turns his back to John, pretending to be unsuspecting.

John gets up and stands by his left side, a suitable method in mind. He slides his right arm over Harold's shoulders, lets it dangle there. "First thing, plant your feet so you've got balance, they can't use their weight to push you to the floor. Then use your shoulders, turn in toward their body. Not away. Away chokes you."

Harold follows along, his head approaching John's chest. John makes a loose fist of his left hand and holds it up. "He's probably planning to punch you in the head, so you get your right hand in front of your face, spread your fingers out to catch that." He guides his hand into Harold's palm. "Latch on. Push me away, lock your elbow." Harold's fingers clamp around his hand, and John demonstrates that he can't punch him once his hand is trapped. "Then take your left hand, go around behind me, and grab my hair to pull my head back, or stick your finger in my eye." Harold opts for John's hair, and his firm grip feels really nice. "That’s exposed my throat. Let go of my fist, punch me in the windpipe.”

Harold’s knuckles gently bump his neck, and John falls backward onto the mat. “Then you can run away.”

Harold frowns down at him, then helps John stand up.

“Ready?” John says, getting back into position.

“Plant, turn, hand, head, punch,” Harold recites. “Five steps.”

"Six, with the running." John corrects him.

"Fine, six."

"Let's give it a try," John says, nervous as his forearm settles under Harold's chin. He lets his weight settle on him slightly. Harold has good strong stance, they've practiced that before. It's really impressive, given his limp. Unfortunately, as soon as his breathing is even the tiniest bit obstructed, panic sets in and his fingers just scrabble at John's arm, trying to remove it. John loosens and prompts "turn, head -"

"You didn't punch me!"

John can't do it to him. "Well, don't wait for the punch."

Harold finally shoves John's ribs with his shoulder, gets John's head back, scrapes fingernails at his throat, and John lets his legs go out from under him.

"Well, that was a mess!" Finch exclaims, irritated with himself.

John props himself on his elbows. "Don't say that. It's good that you blank out now. You'll know how to work past it, if it happens for real."

Harold ignores his attempt at reassurance and starts berating John. "And _you_ don't have to do that every time. You seem to enjoy falling at my feet far too much."

"It is part of the appeal," John drawls.

Harold only becomes sharp. "Stand up, do it again."

"Yes, sir."

Harold counts off the steps out loud, as though he’s learning a dance. He blocks John’s fist even when John tries to dodge his hand. Counting seems to help him, he executes everything perfectly.

From the floor, John praises him. “See! You’ve got it, already.”

“Once more.” Harold shakes out his arms.

John puts his arm around him again. Harold doesn’t speak this time. Steps one to three are fine, but he messes up when they get to four. Harold's arm wraps around under John’s shoulders instead of his head. John's already leaning back, baring his own neck. Harold’s pivoted in such a way that he’s basically dipping him.

Harold stares down at John. He seems to have forgotten how to proceed.

"Drop me, Finch."

Harold kisses him instead. His fingers tangle with John’s, no longer squeezing around his fist. John’s right hand lightly cups the back of Finch’s neck, not bearing any weight at all. It’s on all Harold’s arm and bracing leg.

“Uhh.” John stutters, when Harold hauls him upright and lets him go. “Don't try that with every guy who puts you in a headlock.”

Harold smiles, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Why, don't you think it'd scare them off?”

They burst out laughing simultaneously.

“We’re really bad at staying on task,” John points out, when he can speak, rubbing Harold’s arm.

“I can’t stop staring at this,” Harold agrees, putting two fingers to the hollow of John’s throat, who gulps.

“What do you want to do?” John asks quietly, captivated by Harold’s lips.

“I don’t know, keep trying? We haven’t even gotten to the next thing on my list.”

“Which is?”

“A worst case scenario. First you need to go stand over there.” Harold points to a stretch of empty floor, not on the mats.

John pouts but does as Finch asks.

“Run up and tackle me.”

John groans. “Do I have to?”

“I thought you weren’t squeamish, Mr. Reese.”

“You’re a very demanding student. Why ask for this in particular?”

“That man. Fortunately Kayla managed to subdue him. But if she hadn’t, if he’d come running after us…”

“Then you call for backup,” John tells him, sternly.

“Yes, but if our connection is broken, or you’re detained elsewhere…”

“You run, you hide, you sidestep, you attract attention from potential witnesses, you _do not engage_.”

“Say I’m in a narrow corridor, there’s nobody around, and he’s charging at me. No, forget about little old me for a second. What would you do?”

John sighs. “Turn that momentum into a throw, probably. Kick in the ass if he lands on all fours, boot in the back if he belly flops. Sweep his legs out from under him if he turns and comes back.”

“So teach me that. Or a version of that I can actually do.”

Reese shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, rocks his head from side to side. “Fine. But we switch places first.”

He goes to stand on the mat and Harold walks in the opposite direction. When they’re facing each other, John beckons him forward. “How are you gonna take me down?”

Harold ambles across the space. “Push you over, I suppose?” He gives a very weak shove to John’s chest.

John responds by picking him clean off the ground with his hands behind Harold’s thighs. Harold yelps and clutches round John’s shoulders.

“Please never let anyone tip you over backward,” Reese says, and sets Harold back on his feet. “How are you gonna prevent that? By keeping one leg back and one in front, two and eight o’clock, like when you’re standing on a bus and the floor is tilting. You get low and push your right shoulder into his chest, cling on round his middle, squeeze his chest so he can’t get enough air. Keep your head down. You’re gonna get punched, but you stay on your feet. Because you’re so close he can’t get the momentum for knockout blows. When he starts to get tired, you kick with your front leg behind his knee and let go, let him fold. Once he’s on the floor you get away.”

“And if I end up on the floor with him?”

“Then biting, eye gouges, groin kicks, slam his head into the wall…anything, anything you can do to scramble away, get back on your feet, and get out.” John’s voice is breaking, even thinking of Harold in that situation.

“We’d better practice this.” Harold summarizes, gravely.

They swap places, and John runs toward him over and over, as Harold asked. He mimes the punches. Harold stays upright. Once, John manages to swing Harold around so they’re back to front, but he’s getting better at the headlock escape, and puts John on the floor. Another time Harold sidesteps at the last moment and John ends up having to catch himself against the loft wall. The time after that, Harold swings his front foot and his whole body around, learning his own version of a throw without John even trying to teach him.

“I know how momentum works, Mr. Reese,” he says, when John rolls over on the mat and congratulates him. “It’s basic Physics.”

So is gravity. The next time John runs, Harold hasn’t got his stance. Reese tries to duck off to the right at the last second, but Harold dodges the wrong way and they crash into each other, an awkward tangle of limbs. They go down like bricks, and even though John tries to brace his arms to keep his weight off of Harold, his whole body lands right on top of him. Most of the sudden impact connects their stomachs and groins.

Finch convulses under him, hips arching. The movement and the noise he makes are so alarming that John gets up off him at once. “Harold. Did I…? Your hip? Your back?”

Harold curls the opposite way, and exhales. “Not to worry. I’m not hurt.”

John rubs him cautiously, checking for injuries, then rolls him over, but there’s nothing except a stain on the front of his shorts. He blinks rapidly, glances up at Harold’s relaxed face and notes the deeper breathing.

“Did that… just get you off?” John’s trying not to look too pleased with himself, in case Harold’s embarrassed or upset that it happened.

Harold smiles like a drunken cartoon character, his eyes heavy lidded. “Sorry. Except I’m not.” He throws an arm over his forehead. “Oh, I haven’t come that hard in years.”

John shivers to hear him speak about it, his toes curling.

Harold’s glasses flew off when they fell. The crash mat has prevented the lenses from breaking. John grabs them and balances them on Harold’s stomach.

“No apology necessary. Same thing almost happened to me before we stopped the lessons.”

Harold changes his mind about what to say mid-sentence. “I… should probably get cleaned up.”

John kneels by his hip, and slowly traces his hand up from Harold’s knee. “You could go do that.” He fingers the knot of the drawstring on Harold’s waistband. “Or you could stay right here and let me.”

Harold’s arm slides off his face and flops down on the mat. He throws John a scandalized look, lifts his wrist to check his watch. “It’s 8am. We’re in broad daylight.”

John clucks his tongue. “So?”

Harold undoes the knot on his shorts, and puts his glasses back on to better see John.

John gets his hands either side of Harold’s hips and carefully tugs down the shorts and boxers underneath. Harold’s unsteady breath is music to John’s ears.

He nips at the top of Harold’s thigh first, loves the way it makes Harold spread his legs, knee turning outward. Then he turns his attention to the splash of semen on Harold’s soft inner thighs, trailing his lips over it, lapping it up with tiny flicks of his tongue.

Harold says: “My word,” and his head thumps back on the mat.

John’s head lifts. He sits back on his heels. “Need a pillow?” John grabs the neck of his sports top and pulls it off over his head. Folds it into a vague rectangle and gives it to Harold to prop his neck on.

When he’s lying more comfortably, Harold’s eyes roam over John’s bare chest, stomach, shoulders.

In return, John lets his fingers run through the mess on Harold’s groin. “When was the last time you came?”

Harold tenses, and blushes, squirming under John’s touch. Very quietly, he admits, “I brought myself off in the shower one night last week. I was thinking about what I might say, sometime, to get you to do this.”

John rewards him by stroking his thumb across the hair on his balls, then brings his mouth close to Harold’s skin.

“And?” Another graze of teeth near the crease where Harold’s leg meets his body.

Harold groans. “I can’t remember.”

John quirks a brow. “Bet you can. Don’t be shy, Harold.”

John sets about being the opposite of shy, placing kisses around the base of Harold’s spent cock. Harold starts babbling. “But I am shy! And private. And _very_ turned on right now.” He cringes at the sound of his own voice. “Please don’t keep making me talk. Just do…exactly what you’re doing.”

By the end of this sentence John is thoroughly licking the rest of Harold’s come from the shaft.

When he sucks at the tip, Harold whimpers and starts to get hard again. “Oh, fuck, John.”

John vocalizes an “uh huh” and goes down on him. Harold’s erection expands in the heat of his mouth. It’s been a while since John last gave head. It was nothing like this. It was fast and brutal. Harold doesn’t even reach for John’s cheek or neck, keeps his hands on his own chest or covering his face, trying to keep in his little noises. Everything Harold does only makes him more endearing, and John makes it as good for him as he can. Harold comes in his mouth with a gasp and then a sigh, different from the first loud inarticulate noise John heard him make, but equally as treasured.

“You look like you enjoyed that,” Harold murmurs, after John finishes swallowing, and lies down at Harold’s side.

John nods without opening his eyes. Every part of him is singing with contentment. Harold gives him another few minutes to bask, then nudges his hand. “Would you mind if we relocated to the bed?”

“Sure.” He fetches Harold some clean, dry underwear to slip into, and they lie on the bed together instead of the floor.

John strokes Harold’s stomach over his t-shirt, then slides his hand underneath it, following the happy trail of hair up from his belly button. He’s looking forward to kissing every square inch of Harold’s top half, too.

He’s unintentionally making Harold think of something else, though. “When you touched me here, that time,” Harold begins, settling his own hand over John’s, “it was because you wanted me to learn to breathe from my diaphragm?”

John frowns, not sure where this is going. “I remember.”

“I’ve never explained that it was damaged when I sustained my other injuries. If I get winded sometimes, it’s not necessarily because I’m unfit or in great pain, although those reasons might also be true. Changing my breathing to exclude my shoulders isn’t an option for me, even if I tried to learn how. I thought you should know that.”

John kisses his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me.”

“There’s something else I want to say,” Harold adds quickly, and this time John has to take back his exploring hand, because Harold turns over in the bed to face him, eye to eye. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.” The first time John told him, back in the library, he was angry and rejected and scared. He’ll never say it like that again.

Harold squeezes John’s hand. “I’m glad.” Then he rolls back over and reaches for his phone. “Well, the Machine is staying quiet. We’ve had our workout. A short nap?”

John grabs a pillow and smiles into it. “Sounds good.”

—

It takes time for Quinn’s trial to go ahead. He has trouble holding onto his representation long enough to prepare a defense, since they keep quitting. Eventually, a series of dates are set. Approaching the last day, there’s round the clock news coverage outside the courthouse.

John’s out with Shaw all day, working a Number, but Harold keeps him updated as things slowly progress. He and Shaw head back to the safehouse when the Number is safe.

Twenty minutes after the jury comes back, and social media lights up, and the press starts reporting it, Harold gets a video call from Carter.

“Guilty, on all counts.” She looks relaxed and radiant, her hair’s styled differently, wearing a comfortable sweater rather than a blazer.

John leans in over Harold’s shoulder. “He got fifteen years. Not that long.” At least it’s a high security federal prison, far away from New York and any existing ties.

Carter isn’t disappointed. _“Long enough for a generation of kids to grow up, and a load of ex-cops to reach retirement age. I’m satisfied.”_ She thinks about it. _“Shame they never found Simmons, though.”_

Harold doesn’t react.

“If he surfaces again, we’ll deal with it,” John says.

“Speaking of trouble, what have you been up to?” Harold asks her.

Carter gestures around her. It looks like a computer lounge at a hotel. _“We’ve been backpacking all over the place. Right now we’re somewhere with comfier beds. Taylor’s taking a semester off from school -”_

When she mentions his name, the teen himself pops into frame, waving at them. _“Hi, John and Harold.”_

They greet him warmly too, before Joss gently pushes his head out of her way again. _“I haven’t asked, how are you two?”_

John takes Harold’s hand and lifts it so she can see. “Really good, actually.” In the webcam Harold turns to smile up at him, and Carter winks and gives two thumbs up, but then Shaw is shoving them both out of the shot.

“Carter. The lovebirds are being cutesy and gross. You need to get back here and give me someone else to talk to. You are coming back, right?”

In the edge of the picture, Paul Carter can just be seen walking up behind her.

Carter answers Shaw’s question. _“That’s another reason I called actually. I was thinking, another month should be enough. The media attention will die down now that the trial’s over. And the FBI will have to reassign their agents sometime.”_

Harold chimes in: “Hopefully we won’t have a repeat situation with someone like Agent Donnelly.”

Shaw clicks her fingers and points down the lens. “That’s the guy who had a crush on you!”

Apparently this is an old topic between them, because Carter ducks her head, sighing. _“I didn’t say that. You said that.”_

“Can’t exactly blame him.”

Reese and Finch look at Shaw oddly. She glances between them, all innocent confusion. “What?”

Paul leans in then. _“Have I got competition?”_

Carter tuts at him. _“Back off, you, supposed to be loading up the car.”_

_“All done, just waitin’ on you.”_ He quickly kisses the top of her head.

Shaw pushes away from the table with a groan.

John thinks she has her own version of this with Root, but if Shaw wants to not see couple stuff, she’ll have to hang out with Fusco. Or Zoe.

_“Anyway, if you all agree it’s safe, I’m thinking we’ll be back in the city after the 25th? You can throw me a party, if you want.”_

“Speaking of home…” John inclines his head for Harold to speak.

“Oh yes, we’ve been thinking. We’d be honored to have you work with us full time.”

John finds he’s too eager, he has to persuade her. “Trust me, it’s a better salary than the NYPD. And you’ll need to buy a new house anyway. You can’t go back to your old one. Too many bad people knew where you lived.”

Carter considers this. _“I hadn’t thought about moving permanently. Taylor grew up there. But… you’re right.”_

Shaw adds: “I like this plan. I’d get to work with you more often. Please say yes?”

Joss turns to her son. _“Taylor? What do you think about this?”_

Off-screen, they hear his reply. _“Are you crazy? Say yes already, they’re your superhero mates. And you’d protect people, like you always have.”_

She turns back to them and grins. _“You got a deal, Finch.”_

Reese and Shaw high five. Harold clasps his hands together.

“Thank you, Detective.” Then he cringes at his own mistake. “What should I call you?”

_“Just ‘Carter’ is fine.”_

Paul pats her shoulder, reminding her. _“It’s been thirty-two minutes, we paid for a half hour.”_

_“Yeah, thanks. Look, I better go, okay? Speak to you soon.”_

—

Later that evening, John’s sitting along the length of the couch, facing the windows. Harold’s propped up between his legs, his back to John’s front. He’s got his laptop on his knees, searching for a new place for Carter. His tea things are close to hand, on the little table behind the couch. John occasionally strokes the silk part of Harold’s vest, fiddling with the buckle which tightens it at the small of his back. When Harold’s not typing in earnest, or taking a sip of his tea, John gets his own fingers on the trackpad and helps with the house hunting himself.

When his attention is not focused on the laptop or the man in his arms, John takes a look around the safehouse, from his seated position. He noticed it before when he was stuck here recovering from surgery, but there are an odd collection of items scattered around this apartment. A pair of arch-topped church doors with the stained glass removed, leaning against the wall to the left of the entrance, their hinges loose. Left of those, a black-on-gray shiny mural of a tree, above a cluttered corner which looks like it was meant to be a desk setup, though John has never seen Harold use it for that. There are wooden pallet storage boxes everywhere. A huge clock on the floor in the back corner, half-hidden by cardboard boxes and a chest of drawers. He’ll have to see if he can help Harold put it on the wall, even though it’s a bizarre thing to have.

The museum-like collection of old telephones John gets, at least. Those make sense, knowing Harold. So does the small pile of white fake feathers stuffed under the base of a broken lamp. Bird fan. Details.

This place is a random collection of redecorating projects Finch never got around to finishing. He’s starting to realize Harold likes taking big empty rooms - or cold abandoned dusty libraries - and filling them with warm, soft things. Like this couch and these cushions.

John never thought he’d end up anywhere like this.

“I can’t believe I’m in love with a guy who spends $3000 on a giant lampshade.” He can’t resist teasing.

Harold can’t turn his head to face him, but John knows the eyebrows are probably shooting for the moon. “Excuse me. It’s the perfect size to hang above that dining table. I don’t remember you complaining when we put it up.”

John rests his chin on Harold’s shoulder, laces his fingers over Harold’s stomach, trying to cuddle him even closer. “Not complaining, I’m just thinking. We’re so different.”

“Sometimes opposites attract, Mr. Reese. Now look at these houses. I’ve narrowed it down to three or four. What do you think?”

He taps the arrow key repeatedly to cycle through photos.

John taps at the screen. “Bear would like that garden.”

“It’s not for us.”

“I know. But if we went over to visit...”

“Well.” Harold sounds doubtful. “That one’s less convenient for school. But it’s… not our decision, after all. I’ll email her. There, done. Next, if I can...”

John curves his hand around the corner of the lid, starting to slowly push it closed. “Finch. Maybe put the computer away now? Just be with me.” Harold resists him briefly, then surrenders the closed laptop to the coffee table on their left. Relaxes into John’s hold.

“Pretty nice view from these windows,” John says, nuzzling behind Harold’s ear and flicking undone a few of the vest buttons with his thumb.

“Yes, we’ve got the Chrysler Building, though I’m not as fond of its architecture as Park Row, less gaudy.”

John sighs. “Harold, I’m trying to create a mood here.”

“Oh, a _mood_.” It’s Harold’s turn to tease him. “You should have said. I’ll dim the lights.” He just has to whip out the wireless dimmer remote. If his hands weren’t otherwise occupied, John might use them to facepalm. Instead he gets Harold’s shirt untucked, then loosens his tie when Harold shifts around to face him, having managed to sit up and return the remote to its place next to the chess set on the shelf under the coffee table. He looks far too pleased with himself.

John stretches his legs out and Harold lies down on top of him, finally getting with the program. His hands travel down John’s chest and sides, while kissing him sweetly. John sinks into the stack of bulky cushions which are wedging his shoulders up. They make out for a while, slow and luxurious. John gets Harold’s belt off, a hand down the back of his suit pants.

Slightly breathless, Harold props himself up long enough to ask, “Is this how you imagined?”

“Mmm, yes. Better. We didn’t have to get drunk to do it.”

“Boilermaker,” Harold says, nonsensically, kissing him harder. John doesn’t question him, tension building behind his groin.

Harold doesn’t seem to be able to stay still anymore. “John. Will you…” A deeper kiss when his words fail. “Will you teach me…?”

John is lost. He wants to talk defense, now?

Harold sets his glasses on the coffee table and cups John through his trousers. John’s dick twitches, leaks. Harold sounds almost plaintive. “I don’t _how_ to suck you off, but I want to.”

John’s hips arch. “Christ, Harold.”

But Harold’s wandered away into anxious, talk impossibly fast mode. “You’re clearly an expert, and I could have done some research but it didn’t feel right without you… Is watching porn unfaithful when you’re with someone? I couldn’t -”

John reaches up and covers his mouth. “Step one: stop talking.” He lets go when Harold nods. He hovers over John, waiting for instructions. John tries to get his brain in gear.

He flaps both hands. “Uhh. Shuffle down, I guess.” The couch is long enough. He won’t make Harold kneel on the expensive rug. Although the second John thinks of that, his dick lets him know he’d be into it. He throws that image, along with library suit fitting memories, into a corner of his mind for way, way in the future.

While John works to get a metaphorical hold of himself, Harold undoes John’s belt without being told. He unbuttons John’s fly and traces the shape of him through his boxer briefs, getting his fingers wet with John’s pre-come.

John breathes deliberately slowly and doesn’t let it be over before they’ve begun. “You can take me out,” he suggests, trying to avoid giving orders.

Harold carefully hooks his hands either side of John’s underwear and pulls all his clothing down off his thighs. John’s cock springs up against his abdomen, embarrassingly eager.

“Put your hand around the base, so you can reach the tip…Yeah.” John closes his eyes as Harold angles him, puts his own arms above his head, holding onto his wrist. “You need to sort of purse your lips while covering your teeth.”

John cracks his eyes open when nothing happens for a while. Harold’s flushed and hesitating. Over and over, he brings his mouth close to John before backing away.

John tries to reassure him. “You don’t have to. If it’s too much. You can use your hand. At this point, I’ll come in a heartbeat if you stroke me fast enough.”

Harold narrows his eyes at John. He seems to take this as a dare. He points his tongue and darts it at John’s slit. He doesn’t wrap his lips around, which is just as well because John’s having to grit his teeth and tighten every muscle, not to explode.

It takes Harold a few more tries. When John’s dick is in his mouth, though, Harold makes an approving noise and drives his tongue against him more firmly.

John has seen Harold make mouthfuls of ice cream disappear without wincing at the cold. This is like that, except there’s nothing cold about it.

He doesn’t take John deep, like John would be able to if their positions were reversed. He wraps both hands around his shaft and sucks at the tip with increasing pressure.

“Finch, I’m gonna -”

Finch takes no notice.

“You need to pull off.”

Harold meets his eyes and very sternly shakes his head.

John gives up and lets his orgasm ripple through him.

When John’s awareness returns, Harold is dabbing the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief, and starting to pull up John’s pants.

He’s somehow still able to form words, his voice only slightly hoarse. “Thank you for allowing me to protect the cushion covers. They are removable but I’d rather not go through the hassle.”

“Fuck,” John says, weakly.

—

For their next Number, they need to go undercover at a museum to get close to Kelli Lin, an event planner. They get ready together at the safehouse. Or, more accurately, Harold disappears into the bathroom to change into his tux, leaving John quietly growling at the closed door.

He can’t get enough of Harold lately. Everything he does is sexy. The way he talks, the way he moves. Even the way he sits on the edge of tables. John knows Harold’s only doing that to give his left leg a rest when he gets tired, right foot on the floor to hold him up, but that knowledge only makes John love him more. He wants to lift both of Harold’s legs around himself, so the only person bearing any weight is John. From that point, there are several things John would like to do with Harold, and they all run through his mind at once. So it’s likely that he’s not paying as much attention to putting on his own tux as he should.

With just jacket and tie left to add, John heads out of the bedroom to reduce his temptation to take a peek round the en-suite door, finding a mirror on the wall in the main living space he can use, with better light.

Harold hasn’t actually said who they’ll be tonight. He’s Harold Wren’s plus one, but are they married, or did Harold hire him as his escort for the night? Harold hasn’t asked him to sign any paperwork, not for Wren anyway, so Reese suspects it’s the latter. Wren’s the one in insurance…

It’s then that Harold walks out. John catches a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye, fingers slipping on the tie he’s pinching. He redoubles his efforts, trying to finish it before allowing himself to look at Harold properly, but he can’t concentrate anyway because Harold’s asking him a question.

“It appears the storm has yet to pass, Mr. Reese, will you be needing an umbrella?”

“Only if it doubles as a tactical weapon, Finch.”

Harold flips it around to peer curiously at the pointy end. “I’ll give this one to Ms. Shaw.” He sets it down on a chair, picking up John’s tux.

“I’ll just make a dash for it.” John says, nonsensically. As if he’s going to run ahead and leave Harold behind him, unprotected.

He can’t refuse to admire him any longer. John turns to look.

The jaunty bow is incredibly cute, makes him look jovial and more handsome than ever, with his smooth cheeks and perfectly spiked hair. Harold’s wearing a deep black coat with gray underneath. His tie matches his vest perfectly, and there’s a lighter gray pocket square to complete the look. Harold’s shirt is crisp white and pristine.

John glances down at himself and notes he’s managed to wrinkle his own shirt. He’s wearing his new low-profile body armor underneath. It’s all built into a white undershirt like before, but his ribs are better protected. It’s thicker, a closer fit. The sleeves cut off exactly mid-bicep, whereas the last one draped off the shoulders. Harold told him he’d been appalled when he saw the jagged edge John had cut out of its neckline, so he could wear his shirt unbuttoned how he liked without it showing. From now on, he’ll just have to let it show.

He tries to drag the second half of the bow through the hole again, but the tie is a tangled mess. “I gotta raise my game up if I’m gonna be seen with you, Finch.”

Harold’s standing behind him, holding his jacket up for John to slip his arms into. He guides it up his back as though the jacket is made of delicate golden thread, or as though he can’t stop touching John.

Reflected in the mirror, Harold presses his fingers between Reese’s jacket and shirt, trying to neaten him up where the shirt is sticking out. He moves his hands away skittishly when John pulls open the bow tie to start over, frustrated.

Harold moves his reflection out of the way at least, going around to wait a few paces to John’s left. But he keeps talking. “It’s just like a shoelace, Mr. Reese. I find that it helps if you practice on a leg or a collarness neck if you’re… out of practice.”

Increasingly annoyed with himself, John almost snaps: “I can field strip a .45 upside down in the dark, Finch. I think I can handle a bow tie.” If only Harold would leave the room so John could focus for a second. Harold can’t mention legs without sending John right back to curling his hands around Harold’s thighs, in his mind.

“Of course. Is it butterfly or batwing?”

Reese glares, whips the tie off his neck and holds it out. “Why don’t you do it?”

“Alright.” Harold sounds like he doesn’t mind one way or the other, but the victorious glint in his eye suggests something else. John swallows inside his stiff, buttoned-up collar.

Harold’s hands go around his neck, sliding the black silk under John’s collar with ease. He lets the ends fall to John’s chest, adjusting the lengths.

“Butterfly,” Harold murmurs, announcing the knot he intends to make, and then his fingers brush John’s throat like the wings of one. John watches Harold’s face as he concentrates.

A few fussy tweaks. “Like so.”

John checks the mirror. It’s a lot better than anything he could have done himself.

“I’m afraid your shirt is still riding up on your shoulders, just let me...” He reaches under John’s jacket and pinches the shirt at his lower back so it stops puffing out behind his neck.

John rocks forward on his toes and kisses Harold hard on the lips. Harold’s hands remain on his lower back, smoothing and tucking, while his mouth moves in concert with John’s.

Across the apartment, the door opens. They break apart guiltily. Shaw is glaring down at them, hands on her hips. She’s wearing a white dress which seriously shows off her figure. John is too preoccupied to ask whether Root has seen her wear that. “Hate to interrupt your erotic moment, gents. I could handle this by myself if you’d rather stay here?”

John’s kind of considering it. He turns back to Harold.

“Absolutely not. Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Shaw. Go ahead. We’ll meet you there.”

Harold waits until the door closes, then brings his lips close to John’s ear. “You’ll have to control yourself, Mr. Reese. I’ve been looking forward to this all day. It’s my chance to show you off.”

John shudders. “Tease.”

Harold’s tone changes again. “For goodness’ sake, your collar’s still not right at the back.” He gives it a tug.

John carefully feels his bow tie. The left side is slightly higher than the right. He goes to tweak it, but Harold stops him.

“No, don’t straighten it. You want it slightly asymmetrical. It’s more elegant.”

John checks himself over once more, then takes one final look around the apartment.

He catches Harold’s wrist. “You forgot Shaw’s umbrella.”

“Never mind that now. Get your coat and quit stalling, we’ll be late.”

—

It takes them about an hour to get there. Harold gives John the driving to focus on. It’s for a case, but this is the closest thing to a proper date they’ve had. John makes a mental note: someday soon, he’ll set a time, collect Harold, drive him somewhere romantic and surprising and nothing to do with work. Maybe ask Carter to help him set it up, when she’s back in the city. If Harold wants to be wooed the old fashioned way, John can definitely do that.

He gets out of the car first when they park up on the road in front of the building. Harold’s handicap badge ensures they won’t lose the spot. John opens Harold’s door for him. Harold gets out, holding his umbrella over them both.

He explains to Reese and Shaw that he’s enthusiastic about the exhibition for its own sake. The crowd of protesters in the square don’t agree with him. John tries to catalog faces in case he sees any of them again inside. He doesn’t think Collier would be interested in something like this…but if he sees any Civil War artifacts on display…

When they reach the long flight of steps, Harold collapses the umbrella and takes John’s arm to help him up them.

“You okay?” John wonders, tucking his elbow close to his body, matching his stride to Harold’s.

“Just fine.”

The corridors are wide and lined with paintings. Harold exclaims over a few of them already. They pass through the coat check queue and then into the main hall. In their earpieces, they’ve already heard Shaw meet Kelli Lin and be impressed by her.

Harold steps up to the sign-in desk. “Wren, Harold.”

The lady behind it has red hair and a long red dress. “Of course, Harold Wren…and guest.”

John takes a step forward, surveying the space. He can’t see Shaw or Lin, or any suspicious looking groups or loners. Everyone is very rich and well-dressed. Lin’s done well for herself. Money could be a motive.

“Please keeps these on tonight to show you’re all checked in.” The redhead says politely, handing John a small round badge. He nods to acknowledge her but doesn’t speak. He should have asked Harold more details about their cover, what Harold’s story is for this. He wanders further into the room, trying to get the badge onto his lapel one-handed. It’s a sharp pin rather than a clip, and for the second time tonight Harold attaches his own, catches up to John and does his for him.

Harold’s grinning in an extremely smug fashion.

“What did I do?”

“You didn’t have to do anything. Just be there with your cheekbones.” When John continues to look lost, Harold adds: “How did you not hear? You were standing three feet away. The redhead at the desk wants you for herself.”

John blinks rapidly. “Um.”

Harold presses up against his side, in the middle of the museum, proprietary hand on the back of John’s shoulder, almost the back of his neck. 

“She has no idea how gorgeous you really are,” Harold says, gazing up at him happily.

John decides he likes going undercover with Harold much, much better now they’re a real couple. The other times it had felt like the only thing he wanted in the world was being held up in front of him, but he was separated from it by a veil.

John wraps an arm around him. Screw it, if it makes him look more like a husband than an escort. “You’re the most treasured thing in this room, Mr. Wren.”

Harold blushes and only breaks the embrace when he spots a thousand-year-old book.

Shaw doesn’t even make puking noises at them down the line.

But then the lights go out.

—

They drop Shaw back at her apartment after staking out the bar called _The Purloined Letter_. Finch’s computer work got them Lin’s phone number, and he’s traced her to a residential street. She hasn’t moved for an hour. They have every reason to suspect she is the perpetrator, not the victim, and she needs time to plan her next job. They can leave her be for the rest of the night. John will scope out her place in the morning.

He turns the car around, heading back to the safehouse. A few streets away, Harold’s hand settles on John’s thigh. John lifts it to his mouth long enough to kiss, then lets it fall, able to concentrate fully this time, on getting them home safe.

It’s almost 3am when they step off the elevator. They’ve both been far more tired than this, on other days. But for all John could have tipped Harold onto a bed earlier, now his needs have changed. He wants to curl up with him, skin to skin, and sleep.

Harold hasn’t quite read his mood yet. He pushes John against the bedroom door when they’re inside it, thigh warm between John’s. Their bow ties flutter to the floor, butterflies again. 

“Undress and get into bed, then let me hold you,” John tells him, when Harold asks what he wants, between kisses.

They keep the lights off, stripping one another by feel, careful not to damage clothing. John lies down wrapped around Harold, nose buried in his hair.

The first time they’re completely naked together, this is how it is.

—

Carter chooses the house with the garden. It’s a red brick townhouse, similar style to her old one, but much bigger.

They throw her a homecoming party. They tell everyone to meet there, staggering their arrivals so it won’t be too obvious to neighbors.

Harold and John arrive first, even before Carter. Harold has picked up the keys and signed all the paperwork, decreasing the chance of Carter being recognized before she gets here. Now it belongs to one of Harold’s aliases, he can quietly transfer it into her cover name.

He lets John in. The front door opens into an enormous, well-lit space. Dark wood floors and almost floor-to-ceiling windows. Just in case the space doesn’t feel big enough, someone has positioned mirrors either side of the windows. The staircase is straight ahead on the left, an open fireplace on the right wall.

John doesn’t marvel at it for long. “Is there a kitchen?” He’s looking for somewhere to set out the food he prepared at the loft and brought over. Sometimes it’s obvious Harold isn’t someone who cooks. He never picks places where the kitchen is right near the front door. It’s always tucked away in a far corner.

“According to the floor plan, there are two small ones on the upper floors. But there’s potential to install a galley or corner kitchen here or on the next floor, if Carter wants that.”

John balances everything on a small foldaway chair in the corner for now. Tray of sandwiches, paper plates, wineglasses, napkins. It looks pretty pathetic sitting there.

John turns around in the large empty space, letting his leg swing out wide. “This is a big room, Harold. And with how many floors like this? Six?”

“You were the one who liked this garden, Mr. Reese! It’s very difficult to find one in the city. We’re already further out than I think is wise. If Carter ever wants to come to the library…”

“You’ll just have to invent hover cars so traffic won’t be a problem,” John deadpans.

“Oh, I’ll get right on that, shall I?” Harold says, irritably, before John smiles at him.

“Relax, this is meant to be a party.” He flicks open Harold’s top button.

Harold tuts and does it up again. Biting his lip as he looks around, he says, “You’re right, it’s too big for two people.”

Now John feels bad for kicking Harold’s worry brain into gear. “Three people, if Paul moves in.”

“It’s too big for three people! But it does have three bedrooms…”

“You sent Carter the dimensions? And she said yes to this place, not any of the others?”

Harold is certain. “Yes.”

“Then she wants it. Once she gets all her furniture out of storage and figures out where to put it…”

There’s a knock on the door. Harold checks his phone, so he’s a step behind John, who actually opens it.

“Welcome back, Carter.”

“Hey, John. Great to see you!”

He tries to sweep her up in a hug, but he can’t quite reach. She’s carrying what looks like a thirty pound pack on her shoulders. Of course, she’s been lugging her whole life around for months now.

More cautiously, Harold shakes her hand. “Welcome home. We’re very pleased you could join us.”

They greet Taylor and Paul too, as Carter lifts her hair off the back of her neck as she lowers her bag to the floorboards.

She stretches her arms out in the wide open room. “Wow, Finch. The photos didn’t do this justice.”

“Do you like it?” Harold asks, almost shyly, but Taylor and Paul are pressing their faces to the windows which look out onto the garden.

“How do we get out there?” Taylor asks.

Harold goes over to show them. “I think it’s this way.” He leads them out of the room, leaving Reese and Carter alone.

Reese picks up her bag with one arm, lets it settle on the floor again. “Army training has helped you out there.”

She laughs, hands on her head. “You can’t leave it to the boys.”

“You didn’t leave New York with that much stuff?”

“No way. We’ve picked up souvenirs.”

“Good job, now you’ve got somewhere to put it all.” John quirks a smile, now that Finch isn’t in earshot.

Carter puffs out a long breath. “Apparently. Have you had a look around yet?”

“We just got here.”

“How are you both? Honeymoon phase over yet?” She nudges John in the arm.

He doesn’t even have to think about that one. “Not for me. I don’t think it is for Harold, either.”

“Awww.” Carter looks way too pleased about this.

“For me either, what?” Harold’s back.

Reese and Carter snap to face him. “Nothing.”

He eyes them suspiciously. “…Okay. Shall we find somewhere to sit down? We should talk about you joining the team.” He heads toward the stairs. “We might have better luck with furniture on the next floor.”

He’s right. They follow him up and emerge into an equally large space, but it does at least have a corner with a couch facing two chairs, a coffee table between them, and some shelves against the wall. There’s another empty fireplace with candles inside.

Carter takes one of the chairs while John sits next to Harold on the couch. Across from one another, it feels uncomfortably like they’re interviewing her. John considers switching but then realizes he’s doing what Harold usually does, over thinking it. He stays put.

And maybe Carter’s interviewing them _._ “So do I finally get to know how you choose who to help each day?”

It’s obvious Harold’s going to take that one. "Yes. I built a Machine. An AI." He begins, his voice echoing slightly with the high ceiling.

At the end of his speech, Carter doesn't look particularly surprised. "So basically everything Henry Peck said to Fusco was true."

John and Harold glance at each other, then back to her.

"Back when he first joined the department, there was nothing but rumors about Fusco. I watched all the tapes of his interrogations in case he was doing deals."

“Well, that’s…anticlimactic,” John says.

“I could double over gasping with wonder if you’d prefer.”

Harold enjoys her sarcasm. “That won’t be necessary.”

“No, you’ve got John for that,” she adds, brushing a strand of hair from her face with infinite poise.

Harold goes very still, then sighs. “Is this going to keep happening? I know you’re perfectly capable of presenting an air of professionalism. It’s bad enough that Ms. Shaw teases me at every opportunity…”

She waves him down. “No, no, sorry, I’m done now. Promise.” She schools her face with an effort.

“You’re so much fun to wind up,” John agrees. As for himself, he’s far from done.

“I’ve been on the road for four months with two boys. One who actually is a teenager. My sense of humor has lost a little class. I can bring it back up though.”

“See that you do. Speaking of being on the road, I wanted to provide you with a new phone, one that hasn’t been in contact with various Wi-Fi networks across the country and therefore more difficult to trace.” He takes it from a jacket pocket and hands it across.

“Thank you. Is this just for work, or…?”

“For everything. It’s safer if you stop using the old one.”

“Got it.” Carter takes out her old phone and is about to drop and crush it when she stops. “Actually, can I double check I’ve saved all the photos? Taylor went hang gliding…”

John does get to his feet then, leaning over eagerly. “Can I see?”

Downstairs, the front door bell rings. Finch checks his watch. “That’ll be Ms. Morgan.” He gets up and goes to let her in.

As John and Joss go through her camera roll, which she’s rapidly uploading to the cloud and then deleting, they hear Harold’s greeting and Zoe’s reply, muffled.

John notices a few of the photos are of Joss and Paul, with their faces very close together.

“Are you and Paul back together for good?”

Carter hums. “Maybe. We're taking it slow. He's a bit weird about me taking Finch's money.”

Outside, there’s a happy shout. They look out of the windows and see Paul climbing the wall at the corner of the garden. It’s covered in plant leaves but he’s gripping on between the vines, high enough to be level with the second floor.

Taylor’s watching from the ground, laughing and videoing it on his phone. “Dad, that’s so high, you’ll fall!”

Paul searches for another sticking out brick to use as a hand hold, but can’t find one. “Fine, I’m coming back down now.”

“He seems okay,” John says, managing not to laugh.

“Pair of jokers.” Carter is shaking her head.

When Finch doesn’t rejoin them, they wander back downstairs to say hi to Zoe. She’s already outside, and on their way through the room Carter spots the food John left there earlier. “These might be better out there? There’s a table. Can I move…?”

"Of course, it's your house. I'll help carry." He takes the glasses and napkins so she doesn’t have to balance it all.

“This is where I’m living, every day from now on? Definitely hasn’t sunk in.” Joss wonders, as they walk.

“It’ll take a bit of getting used to,” John says, from experience. The first time he ever visited his birthday gift loft, he gazed out of the windows happily for half an hour, then left and sat in the darkest bar he could find, trying to feel normal again, and not like he was floating out of his skin on undeserved luxury.

Actually, thinking of luxury… “I left something in the car. Back in a few minutes.” He leaves the things he’s carrying for Carter to unpack.

He returns with two bottles of the best wine from Ingram’s collection. He’d agreed it with Harold beforehand. It’s like Nathan being able to welcome Carter to saving the Numbers. Harold had hugged him, and said Nathan would have liked that. And then he’d spent two hours researching exactly which were the best ones.

Carter lets John back in. He makes his way through the house to find that Fusco has arrived, with Lee and Bear.

“I can’t dog-sit anymore.” Fusco is saying. “My son can’t do his homework when this massive distraction is around.”

Harold’s voice: “I can sympathize.”

John leaves the bottles on the table with the food, throwing a wink in Harold’s direction, then lets Bear chase him round the garden. “Hey, boy.” He plays with the dog for a while, finding out whether he’s learned any new tricks and checking they haven’t pushed out the old ones. He picks up snippets of various conversations as they go.

Lionel asks Taylor when he’s back at school and how he feels about taking the bus such a long way.

“It’s fine. I’ll use the time to read or listen to music. Do homework.”

Carter zeroes in on Taylor’s reply like a hawk. “You better not do homework on the bus the morning it’s due.”

Taylor folds his arms. “I did that _once_. You won’t let me forget it.”

Harold taps John on the shoulder. “That’s almost everyone here. Would you like to do the toast now?”

John looks around, counting heads. “Who are we missing?”

“Just the terrible twosome. They do like to make an entrance.”

John shrugs. “Yeah, we can do it now.”

“Everyone? Gather round, please. Mr. Reese has something he’d like to say.” They go over to the table. Harold starts opening the bottles.

Embarrassed, Carter tries to wriggle out of it, but her friends crowd her back in, gleefully. “Oh, hell. Is this about me? Can I hide in the back? Don’t put me on the spot.”

Taylor gently pushes his mom forward into the middle of the circle, facing Reese.

“Joss.” He pauses too long, remembering the whole of the speech Harold helped him write and then rehearse.

Uncomfortable in the spotlight, Carter folds her arms and ducks her head forward, eyebrows raised impatiently. “John.” A few people chuckle.

“You’re a truly good person. You’ve inspired, protected, raised, helped make a lot of us better people. It’s not been an easy year for you. You lost a friend. But instead of giving up, you worked day and night to bring his killers to justice. All that work paid off. You put down, for good, a crooked organization which has been controlling this city for years.” Spontaneous, unanimous applause breaks out when he reaches the end of that sentence.

John lets it die down before he continues. “Now you’re at the start of a new chapter. New job, new home. I know you’ll bring that same determination and hope with you. Here’s to everything you’ve accomplished, and many more happy years.”

Harold has been handing out drinks, and he gets to John last, just in time so that John can raise the glass in his hand. “To Carter.”

Everyone echoes him, and takes a drink, except for Fusco. Paul, Zoe and Carter look into their wine glasses, surprised that they just drank pure money. Finch is looking pleased, while John is starting to feel bad that they forgot to cater to Fusco. Lionel puts his down on the table with a frown, and Lee reaches for it, curious. Fusco moves to stop him. “Hey, that’s not for…” He changes his mind. “Fine, get it over with, you won’t like it anyway.”

He’s right. Lee takes a sip, then coughs and sticks his tongue out, eyes watering. Lionel pats him on the back. “See?”

With a guilty glance in Carter’s direction, Fusco heads inside, fetching tap water for himself, as well as Lee and Taylor. Concerned, John is about to go talk to him when there’s a splintering noise and a bang, the side gate busting open. Taylor connected his wireless speakers to his phone half an hour ago, so it’s only just audible over the music. The beat cuts off abruptly when Shaw strides in. 

When she realizes everyone’s staring at her, she says: “What? We rang the bell for ages. No one answered.”

Carter strides forward, halfway between amused and annoyed. “Did you just break the lock on my gate?”

“Good to see you too.” Shaw smiles at her.

But then Carter’s gaze drifts over Shaw’s shoulder, to the person sneaking up behind, who smiles nervously and gives a little wave.

A split second of recognition. “You!” Carter lunges, her hands reaching for Root’s neck. “What are you doing here?”

Reese hurries forward, gets between them, contains Carter’s wrists, tries to block Root from her field of vision. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Listen, it’s fine. She’s allowed to be here. She’s invited.”

Carter meets John’s eyes. “This is Caroline Turing. She took Finch! We tracked her down together. Why would you invite her?”

“I’m with Shaw,” Root interjects, but John glares her quiet, then turns his attention back to Carter, letting go as she calms.

“You’ve been away. Things have changed. Harold trusts Root now.” John glances over at his partner, who is watching the scene with open-mouthed surprise. “And I trust him.”

Carter follows John’s line of sight. Harold takes a few steps toward them, addressing Carter. “On the night that you and Mr. Reese took Mr. Quinn into custody, you guessed there was someone on the rooftops, hindering your pursuers. But it wasn’t Ms. Shaw.”

John frowns. This is news to him too.

Harold looks to Root, who’s slightly smiling back, grateful. “Root saved your life. You and John. I didn’t mention it the morning we met, because…well, you and I both had a lot on our minds.”

Carter takes a deep breath. “Someone could have warned me, before I made a scene.”

Reese rubs at his eye. “I know. We should have.”

“Yeah, I could have said something too. Before you went away.” Shaw admits. “Root works with us, sometimes.”

Carter turns back to her. “And you and Root are…That explains a lot.”

The tension diffuses. Taylor plays the music again. The party resumes.

Root sidles up to John, fingers hooked into the pockets of her skinny jeans. “Thanks for defending me.”

John is unimpressed. “Yeah, don’t let it go to your head. I only stopped Carter doing something she’d regret. She happens to like Shaw.” Root’s face falls. John walks away from her, back to Harold’s side.

Finch mouths “Sorry” as John approaches.

John smiles fondly and rests a hand on his back. “You and your secrets.”

Harold leans into the touch, tilting his head up. “Would you prefer an open book?”

John pecks him on the lips. “Never. Keeps me on my toes.”

Carter expresses a need to explore her new house properly. Reese, Finch, Shaw and Root gather to go along with her. There’s a flight of stairs close to the garden entrance leading down, so they take that first.

Harold says, when they emerge into the lower floor, “this is listed as a cellar.”

In unison, Reese and Carter decide out loud: “Weapons basement.”

Root, however, suggests “Server room,” sparking a debate between Root and Finch about whether it's acceptable to store servers underground. Root wanders off after that, leaving the rest of them to explore the house without her, much to John's inward relief.

Several rooms later and floors higher, Harold says “This would be the master bedroom.”

It has big windows with wooden slatted blinds, white walls. A very shiny wood floor.

There’s a large mirror balanced on a shelf above the double bed, in place of a headboard.

John often doesn’t agree with Finch’s taste, but this is another level. “That seems like a terrible idea. One hard shove or flailing limb and… crash.” He mimes the mirror falling on someone’s head. “Lot of bad luck.”

Finch folds his arms. “I didn’t design this. This is how the previous owners chose to present it. You’re free to replace and rearrange the furniture however you’d like.”

“I know. Thanks, Harold.” Carter says, politely.

But Shaw has other ideas. She gets her shins against the foot of the wooden bed frame and gives it a push. She’s very strong, but the mirror doesn’t wobble. “Would have to be a hell of a shove, Reese.”

Harold also sounds keen to dispel the idea. “Exactly. It’s impossible.”

John turns to him, eyebrows waggling. “Wanna bet?”

He watches the implication sink in for Harold, who flushes red and practically flees the room.

Carter flicks John on the back of the ear. “That was mean.”

“You did the same thing earlier!” John protests, ducking away. Shaw is quietly shaking with laughter.

Carter and Shaw head up to investigate the next floor. John chooses down, intending to find Harold and apologize for his childish joke. He bumps into Zoe on the stairs.

“Hi, John.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says, automatically. Embarrassment karma gets him back already. He rubs the back of his neck. Things have never been the same between them, since he lost his concentration with her, just for a moment.

Still, it’s all worked out for the best. They’re still friends, without the benefits.

“Thanks, for whatever you said to Harold. You must’ve helped him figure stuff out.”

Zoe pushes the strap of her bag up higher on her shoulder. “You have your superpowers. Magic words are mine.”

She walks past him, climbing the next flight of stairs, calling over her shoulder: “Don’t forget to be happy, John.”

He smiles, and goes to follow her advice.

Finding Harold outside on a low wall, sipping more wine, John sits shoulder to shoulder with him, watching as Lee teaches Bear to jump over a bench.

“Sorry about upstairs.”

Harold snorts. “That’s quite alright. You don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

John shivers.

“Are you cold?”

John could have told him his temperature is perfect, but Harold’s already on his feet, putting his glass down and shrugging out of his jacket. It’s too small across John’s shoulders, but that doesn’t matter. It’s such a sweet gesture that he draws it closer around himself and smiles, watching Harold’s ass as he walks away, heading into the house, possibly in search of John’s coat.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of peaceful chaos.

It’s getting late when John realizes he hasn’t seen Fusco in a while, and makes his way through the house, trying to find him. Zoe’s had to get back to work. Lee and Taylor are furiously locked in some kind of Nintendo 3DS battle. Shaw and Paul and Joss are talking in front of a fireplace.

John climbs another few flights of stairs. He finds Root and Finch playing chess in a corner of the fourth floor. Through a skylight in the ceiling, the moon is shining down on them. Harold has his chin resting on a fist, his other hand moving a pawn. He’s absorbed in the game. Root winks at John as he walks by.

A tiny chink of painful jealousy unfurls in his heart, but John takes a deep breath, and makes himself let it go. Harold can have friends John doesn’t like, and still love John.

Unless Lionel’s gone home without telling anyone, there’s only one more place he could be. John finds his way up to the roof, lifting the unlocked metal panel like a drain cover and climbing into the open air.

The roof is long and narrow, like the rest of the house. It’s surrounded by a high wall and a low railing. Fusco has one foot propped on the pipe, his arms folded on the wall.

He can guess why Fusco’s hiding away by himself.

John closes the trap door, then makes a cone of his hands and calls him like they’re at a hockey game. “Fusco!” He holds out his arms.

The other man stops pretending to ignore him and they walk a long way to meet in the middle. “We gonna wrestle up here?”

“You that eager to throw me overboard? It’s just a hug.”

Back slapping ensues.

John lets him go. “I’m sorry. You had a terrible time.”

“What, this party’s been great! Lee’s talking about sleeping over.”

John pitches his voice as low and quiet as it will go. “Not tonight. You were tortured, you almost heard your son die, and you killed a man. All within twenty-four hours.”

Fusco frowns and shrugs. “I’m fine. I don’t need sympathy.”

John ignores his bravado. “Thank you. You went through all that for Joss. For this city. You’re a hero, Lionel. But nobody will ever know it.”

A few more seconds of staring at Reese like he’s been utterly betrayed, then Fusco swings away, practically throwing himself at the wall again. John moves with him.

Fusco’s tone darkens with suppressed emotion. “Well, exactly. Where’s my fancy house? If I quit the force, you lot lose access to police resources.” He looks thoroughly ashamed of himself for being jealous. And what he says is completely true. They need him to stay where he is. Not undercover in HR anymore, but as a good, clean cop…who just happens to be on their side.

“I know. I get it. You somehow always pull the short straw. All I can do is tell you we appreciate it.”

“Yeah.” Thick with sarcasm. He puts his forehead against the top of the wall.

Reese goes a few steps closer and gestures to his own side, apologizing once more. “I’d have done it myself and saved you the trouble, but I got sloppy.”

Fusco glances over at him. “Finch told you?”

John shakes his head, leaning an arm on the wall himself. “He disappeared for four hours and came back smelling like soil. A lot of it.”

Lionel taps his foot, looking out at the surrounding streets. “Don’t tell Carter.”

“I won’t. Trust me.” No answer. John gives him a few minutes, then tries again. “Will you be okay?”

“I’m a bad father. I can’t provide for my kid on anything like the level he deserves. I’ve accepted that his happiness can’t come at the price of other people, even when they’re bad guys. I can’t get greedy. I gotta do my job, really fuckin’ well, and help you out when you need it. And I can’t take a dime from you and Finch without it looking like I’m on the take.”

John listens to all this with a sinking heart. Then he has an idea. “Have you talked to Paul? He’s got similar worries.”

“No. I barely know the guy.”

“Get to know him. He goes to the VA. You might be good for each other.” John pats the wall, starts to back away.

He points at Fusco and narrows his eyes, trying to make sure this point sticks in his brain. “Lee’s happy. HR couldn’t touch that. You raised him strong.”

Fusco’s cheek curves, almost smiling. “You’re right about that, at least.”

“Rejoin the party when you’re ready, okay?”

Fusco nods.

Satisfied that he’s done his best to help, for now, John makes his way toward the roof entrance. He lifts up the hatch and pauses before he swings himself through the gap.

“Lionel? Sorry we screwed up earlier. But you didn’t take a drink. Be proud.” With that, he steps onto the ladder and climbs down.

—

Harold really needs to stop interrupting practice fights by kissing John. This time John ends up backing him against the loft wall, Harold's hands down John's shorts. John's cradling the back of Harold's head so he won't accidentally bump it. John flexes his hips into Harold's grasp, his movements fluid and powerful, but controlled. He peppers Harold's jaw with kisses, licks a bead of sweat which finds its way down from Harold's temple. John's been working him hard, and now Harold works him hard. He's been touching John more confidently each time they have sex. John has found he's a quick study about almost everything, except cooking.

John jerks and then sags against him, dropping his head to Harold's warm shoulder with a satiated sigh. Harold's hands remain in his shorts, he keeps touching John gently even after he turns soft. "Could you go again in half an hour, or are you done for today? I was rather hoping you might fuck me." Harold says, matter-of-factly.

John lifts his head at once, looks into Harold's eyes, voice soft but urgent. "Are we ready for that?"

Harold shrugs. "I don't see why not. I want...I want to know what it's like myself before I do it to you. Sorry, is that selfish?"

"Oh, Harold." John kisses him deeply, thumbs stroking behind his ears. "That's the opposite of selfish." The thought of surrounding himself with Harold's heat is enough to make his dick throb already. Harold must feel this, because his fingers tighten momentarily, then his hands slide out of John's waistband. He dries them on John's top, then yanks it off over his head, John lifting his arms to accommodate him.

He just has to turn around and walk backward a few paces until he hits the bed, leading Harold with him. He's about to sink down, let Harold climb into his lap, but something practical enters his head just in time. "Lube, condom. Let me get them now so we don't have to pause later." He crosses the apartment, opens a drawer and retrieves what they'll need.

Harold lies down on his back and is stroking himself when John returns. "Just relieving a little tension."

"No need to apologize," John purrs, watching him. "You can come before, if you want. Might help relax you."

Harold's cheeks are flushing pink. "No, I want...when you're inside me."

John flops onto the bed beside him, his own hand covering Harold's crotch. "We'll see if you can last that long."

As soon as John gets close enough to kiss, Harold pulls him down. His hands wander John’s chest and back, exploring. John props himself up on his left arm and uses his other hand to glide around Harold's hip, faintly scarred skin under his fingertips. He knows how Harold got these, now. Revealing the story of their origin is another sign that Harold trusts him, too. Harold sighs and lifts his leg over John's, pressing his groin in close to John's thigh. "Feels so fulfilling, just to touch you," Harold says wonderingly, and not for the first time.

"I know," John agrees, but his touch is venturing much lower, heading somewhere he hasn't pushed before. Harold lifting his leg has created more space between his cheeks which John exploits, tracing the curve, his nails skating over smooth skin and soft fine body hairs. He feels Harold shiver minutely against him. He keeps stroking and petting his ass until Harold starts slowly rocking against him. John decides it's time to get him out of these shorts, expose him to the air. Nobody but John will see this. They've had thick blinds installed on the loft windows months ago.

He loses the rest of his own clothes first, using his balled-up underwear to pat dry his own sensitive groin. Harold's shoes, socks and boxers follow, then he removes Harold's glasses and sits him up so his workout top can go too. The glasses end up on the bed, caught between Harold's fingers. He moves his arm, intending to put them somewhere safe, but he gets distracted by John's mouth latching onto one of his tempting pink nipples. "Grab one of the pillows behind you," John instructs, between possessive, gentle teeth grazes. "Under your lower back, so it’s comfortable."

Harold gasps, his whole bare body twitching, but he does as John asks.

John steps back from playing with his nipples to slide the condom on, slick the fingers of his right hand. When he pushes Harold down again, it's with a hand around the back of his neck, his own elbow sinking into the pillows under Harold's head. John finds his balance on his knees, and uses the inside of his right wrist to brace Harold's right thigh against his hip, foot flat on the bed. It gives Harold something to push against, and Harold's firm thigh is something for John's dick to stroke. He doesn't want to put any pressure on Harold's left leg, trusts Harold to find a comfortable position for it.

He places random kisses over Harold's torso. Center of his chest, collarbones, neck. Working his way up to Harold's mouth. "Ready for this?" His smile is probably too hungry, but that doesn't scare Harold.

"Yes, please, yes."

John's finger find his entrance, stroking lube over it, softly tapping. Harold's leg shifts, trying to push himself down toward John, but when John attempts to slip inside, the ring of muscle firmly closes on him. John kisses the corner of his mouth, lets Harold know it's okay to be nervous.

This repeats a few more times, and Harold whines, frustrated with himself. "I keep pushing you out. I don't mean to, it’s instinctive."

"Take that instinct, do the opposite," John suggests. He gives Harold another chance to figure it out. This time, Harold opens for him. "That's right.” John praises him. “Teamwork. You let me in, and you get this." He nudges with just the tip of his finger against Harold's prostate.

Harold quakes beneath him. "Oh my god. John!"

John brings his lips close to Harold’s ear. "I know. You like that? Imagine when it's my cock."

Harold grips John’s shoulder. “Please make that a reality sooner rather than later.”

"We'll get you there, don't worry." He slowly strokes in and out, going deeper each time, adding more lube from the bottle which he keeps on the bed between Harold's legs. Harold shifts restlessly against the pillows, kissing John and keening in the back of his throat.

John's second finger slips in beside the first when it feels right. As he gently teases his fingers apart, Harold breaks the kiss to moan with his mouth wide open.

[[like and reblog art on tumblr](https://singingsweetyorange.tumblr.com/post/175961292973/full-version-here)]

"It's okay, you're okay," John soothes, sweating on the back of his neck with the effort of holding himself up like this. Holding himself back when Harold is naked and trembling with need. "Is that hurting you?"

"No, no, I had no idea..." Harold pets John's side. "How fff..." Another prostrate stroke. John thinks Harold's going to swear, but then he finds the word "phenomenal". John chuckles, fond of his beautiful genius. He moves back a little, easing the strain on his arm.

Harold opens his eyes and lifts his head when John's hand moves from behind it. "Could I take you?" He reaches for John's dick and curls a finger around it, then lifts his own hand away, looking at the loop and trying to picture the girth inside him. "Please, John, I need you closer."

John kisses his sideburn. "Get up to three fingers and we'll try, yeah?"

With time and dedication, Harold can take three fingers. John kneels up and watches, transfixed. He lines up his thumb as well, because he’s enjoying watching his hand disappear into Harold too much.

Harold wails with frustration and squeezes John’s dick in his fist, a forceful reminder not to linger any more. White liquid trickles onto Harold’s stomach from his erection. John gets the message and moves between Harold’s legs, lifts both his knees either side of his hips.

John’s own arousal has been subsumed into the background by watching Harold’s reactions, but it returns to the forefront of his awareness as he lines himself up and slips inside. He groans, bowing his head over Harold’s body. "Finch."

" _Yes._ "

Harold welcomes him, draws him deeper. John loves him. So much. So connected to him...when he thinks he can feel this much bliss and look at Harold at the same time, John opens his eyes. He can’t reach his mouth to kiss. Instead he lets go of Harold's knees and reaches forward to catch and squeeze his hands, pressing them down into the bed.

Harold loses his glasses under the pillows and squeezes back, encouragingly. "Show me, John."

John shows him. With effort, he keeps his movements controlled, building a rhythm without pushing too harshly, until Harold figures out how to clench around him and John's hips snap in of their own accord. Harold writhes and shouts, a splash of warmth between them. John's thrusts become more natural, an uneven, all-encompassing pace, satisfying what his body craves. It carries him past coherence, until he's mumbling almost nonsense, "huhhh...gorgeous, Harold, sweetheart, ahh!" He isn't ready to let go, but he's filling up the condom and falling down between Harold's legs before he knows it. His arms can't hold him up, he's weak from head to toe, but his heart is thrumming and every atom of him is glad. He rubs his cheek against Harold's chest, lazily, until Harold unclasps their hands and his arms wind around the back of John's head.

"Worth the wait?" Harold wonders.

It takes John a moment to register he's being asked a question that needs an answer. He's distracted by finding himself so close to a nipple again, trying to summon the energy to shuffle over and suck on it. He hasn't pulled out yet, he should do that too.

Harold's finger waggles John's ear. "You waited for me for two years, John."

"Oh, that." He manages to wave a hand. It flops down on the bed and just so happens to find Harold's glasses, tucked under a pillow beneath Harold's head. He reels his arm back in and tucks the frames against Harold's shoulder, where he can reach them. "Ancient history. You're mine now."

He feels Harold laugh. "So I am."

—

Shaw and Reese are staking out the Number's house, waiting for him to leave so they can snoop through his stuff.

In his ear, Finch says _"Very impressive, how you charmed that receptionist to give you the address, Mr. Reese."_

John smiles. "Thanks, Finch. It's good to hear your voice too."

Beside him, in the driver's seat, Shaw shoves the last bite of her meatball sub in her mouth and tears up the wrapper it came with. She tosses the pieces one by one at Reese's head. "Stop. Flirting. With. Him. At. Work."

Bear leans in from the back, shoving his nose into the squares of cardboard, whining at the smell of meat.

"Sorry, boy, she didn't leave you any," John says, petting Bear's neck while making a mock-disappointed face at Shaw. She groans and rests her chin on the steering wheel, bored and fidgety.

Ten minutes later, Ashley Gray locks his front door and walks away.

"Finally! I'll take Bear, you stay here and keep watch."

Reese takes her forearm to stop her leaving, retrieves a coin up his sleeve. "Flip for it."

Carter's voice interrupts over the earpieces. _"No need, you two, I'm already inside."_

"Carter! He only just left, where did you come from?"

_"I lifted a fence panel and broke in the back. You won't need a sniffer dog, this place reeks of marijuana. He's growing enough for a farm."_

_"It would appear we've discovered his occupation,"_ Finch says, _"and it looks like business is booming. His bank account shows steadily increasing deposits, in cash."_

Shaw rubs her chin. "So is someone planning to kill and then steal it from him, or is he bumping off the competition?"

Both Reese and Shaw get out of the car, bringing Bear with them. "Let's find out."

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements:
> 
> I stole things from pretty much everywhere! 
> 
> xlostlenore gave me a prompt in 2016. She just wanted to see John give Harold some self-defense lessons. I loved the idea and started to write. Then the bunny mutated a few thousand times. Happy belated birthday, L, and thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoy this, even though it’s more / different than you expected.
> 
> Self-defense techniques can all be found on YouTube. I've paraphrased and described things from those videos in detail, while adapting them for Rinch. Obviously, don't try these at home.
> 
> Medical information thanks to michaelssw0rd. I asked her so many questions. All remaining inaccuracies are my own. She's also been my rock on a daily basis. Thank you for listening to my endless nonsense, Tee, as well as being excited about the snippets I've tossed your way.
> 
> st_aurafina read the first half of the fic months ago and gave very wise advice.
> 
> bliphany helped me brainstorm when I was stuck for ideas about what Harold does on the computer in his spare time. (Also, happy birthday to you!)
> 
> Headcanons about Harold's injuries (i.e. diaphragm damage causing breathing issues) came from a roleplay tumblr fatherofmachine. I asked permission at the time (2017) to incorporate their insightful research and use it in this fic.
> 
> comtessedebussy's addition to [this post](http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/post/153346666598/comtessedebussy-kiranovember) inspired the opening scene of Chapter Three. singing_orange drew the art when this scene was just a bullet point in my outline. I then used the visual detail provided by the art to enhance the scene when I got there. 
> 
> The last piece of artwork predates the Big Bang, but when I saw it, the fic was still taking shape. I adored it so much I asked if I could build the scene around it and singing_orange very generously agreed. Collabs are amazing.


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